


The Plan

by eohippus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, India, Organized Crime, Paris (City), Post Reichenbach, Smuggling, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 36,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eohippus/pseuds/eohippus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game the consultig criminal has played with the consulting detective has ended. Sherlock goes into hiding to complete his mission, untangling Moriarty`s financial network, meeting new foes, Mycroft being his only confidant. </p><p>Post-Reichenbach, prequel to 'The Movement of Bees'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: A Final Hint

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a story I always wanted to write: where Sherlock Holmes went after his "death" and how far Mycroft is involved. Thankfully the BBC has transported Sherlock into the 21st century which made telling this story far more easy.
> 
> As it is also my first multi-fic in a language which is not my mother tongue and has been written earlier this year (2012) and previously to most of my other fics, there might be some mistakes, etc. due to my unpolished English at that time. Please bear with me there ;)
> 
> The story includes: A very alive consulting detective / several crooked charactes who threaten Europe´s financial markets / the leader of Moriarty´s financial organisation / Paris, Antwerp and the motorway between both cities / simulation software / a newspaper, a writing desk and handcuffs / homesickness and sentiment / several dead individuals and a beaten one / a person with a minor position to the British Gouvernment / a colonel who has been released from action in Afghanistan by charge of dishonour / the Himalayas and Delhi / a certain woman / two cobras and an Enfield 500 / a crashing plane and iron bars / a hospital and a patient / a dealer and a doctor / knifes and drugs

Sherlock has never felt such utter dread as when he peers down from the rooftop of St. Bart´s.

He tries to compose himself, tries to concentrate, but raw fear sends shivers through his limbs and shouts of warning through his mind. For a second he has considered it a possibility that he would not need to jump, but Moriarty, by shooting himself, has ruled out this option.

He reels around, facing the open sky, the capsule holding the Rhododendron Ponticum dissolving in his mouth. Never has he been so terrified by the necessary course of action. Were it avoidable, he would not go on with his act. Even with the help of Mycroft, Molly and his homeless network it is too much of a risk.

Moriarty´s henchmen will kill everyone who is closely associated with Sherlock if they don't see him fall, as the consulting criminal has made only too clear. And, as Sherlock has assured Mycroft, he would rather die than let the madman win his deadly game.

A taxi pulls up on the adjacent street only moments later and John rushes out. Sherlock calls him instantly. There is so much subtext in voicing his friend´s name: John, I´m going to die. John, this probably won´t work out as planned. John, you are the crucial key to my plan and if I fail, the first victim. John, I love you but I will betray your trust.

If Sherlock could only tell him the truth, console him. Instead, he desperately needs to nail John to the spot to make him witness his fall. He nearly fails to stop the army doctor´s approach, who is as determined as ever to meet a forthcoming danger head-on.

Sherlock demands, orders, and finally pleads for John not to draw any nearer, to turn back, his voice filled with desperation and anguish. The pleading does it – John stops, sensing with every fibre of his being that all this is not good at all.

John in position, Sherlock breathes in heavily.

"I can´t come down so we´ll just have to do it like this", he says, his heartbeat slowing a little. The effects of the drug reduce him to this weak phrase, and his choice of words and articulation make John immediately suspicious.

He nearly chokes on his final lie, using up all his weaning strength to confess that he is a fraud, that he invented Moriarty, fervently praying that this will be proof enough for Moriarty´s henchmen to back off.

A short, desperate laugh escapes his lips as John assures him of his loyalty, of Sherlock´s cleverness. The pain he feels on betraying their friendship so openly reduces him to tears.

Then he realizes. He can leave one single detail which can signify the truth. And he tells John that all this is a magic trick, fervently hoping the doctor will remember.

Time is running out, while his breath is getting even more labored. The pain of loss and regret burns like a white flame in his chest, dread nearly impeding his last move towards the edge.

A note.  
A farewell.  
A phone abandoned.

For the fraction of a second he can discern John shouting up from below.  
His vision blurs with tears.

He spreads out his arms and dives


	2. Resurrection

I have jumped. Moriarty was wrong. Falling is not at all like flying. Falling is tumbling down in a void, the concept of time and space suddenly reversed, for time stretches indefinitely, and space is narrowed down to the inevitable pull of gravity.

Time actually seems to stop while I fall. My fear, my feeling of loss and my anger grip my heart and soul and burn into them like a searing flame. Tears fill my eyes as my mind races faster than ever before, reconsidering every single one of my calculations on height and gravity.

A miscalculation will send me into oblivion instead of into a cushioning bed of hospital laundry. And chances are that I have overlooked crucial facts which could prove fatal. The snipers could have been instructed to shoot their targets in any case. The poison in my veins could affect me stronger that I calculated. The cyclist who is positioned run down and delay John`s appearance on the scene of my death could miss.

It is a very frail and most desperate plan backed up by sheer luck. To base a case of life and death to as unsound a basis as this would be a most intriguing experiment, except that experiments normally can go wrong and be repeated.

But my leap into oblivion cannot be repeated. It is a fifty-fifty chance between life and death.

My thoughts come to a halt with the violent impact on the truck. Thankfully, it really is the truck I land upon, the laundry bags breaking my fall. Still, the sheer force of the rebound knocks the wind out of my lungs.

Dazed and hurting, I feel Molly´s hands on my shoulder, as she pushes me onto the pavement, pouring blood over my hair, wetting it thoroughly. Caught in between moments of drifting in and out of consciousness, I register a sprained wrist, several cuts on my arms and sharp pain in my torso.

Far more immediate is the agony I feel as I hear John´s desperate cries to let him in, to get through to me. He is torn apart by grief and it is me who has broken him. I want to reach out, in this moment I want desperately to use my last breath to let him know the truth, but thankfully the poison takes effect and I pass out into infinite darkness.

Excruciating pain in my wrist, left leg and ribs wake me. I´m shivering and my head is throbbing violently. Someone is touching me lightly on the neck, checking my pulse.

"Thank God you´re awake", a female voice whispers.

I gradually surface to reality and realisation hits me. I am dead. Dead to the public, dead to Moriarty´s men, and above all to my faithful blogger. I open my eyes, scanning my surroundings and the two humans, man and women, standing at my bedside. A groan escapes my lips.

"I knew you wouldn´t be pleased to find me at your deathbed," my brother says, his tone dry, conveying a very rare display of black humor. The creases on his forehead straighten as he smiles, in fact smiles down at me. He grabs hold of my hand. "It´s good to see you again, little brother," he states softly.

It is so much unlike my brother to display emotions so openly that I am at a loss for words. Instead, I turn to Molly to express my gratitude. "Thank you. Without your help I wouldn´t have survived," I say, my voice hoarse, and she blushes.

"You still got hurt," she answers and creases her brow in worry. "You could easily have been killed, too."

I draw a pained breath. "Seems not to be the most brilliant idea to jump off a rooftop if one wants a long, happy life," I say. "Really Molly, I don´t know where this would have ended without your help."

Molly, in spite of her usual nervousness, stifles a small laugh of delight and cautiously starts to apply a bandage to my wrist.

"Hark, hark, my brother is confiding that he is not an unfeeling alien," Mycroft observes drily, not able to resist picking up our bantering.

"Special occasion, Mycroft," I spit, venom in my voice. "I am dead and gone to the side of the angels, remember? Died of – head trauma and internal bleeding, mainly, accompanied by a sprayed wrist, two broken ribs and bad bruising of the left leg and the torso. Am I right?"

"R…right," Molly stammers, flustered again. "That´s what it says… what I wrote down on your death certificate."

Weak with fatigue, I close my eyes. "Fine," I whisper. "Have you yet identified my body, Mycroft?"

My brother shifts. "An hour ago. I delayed my arrival for twelve hours as you requested. We´d better leave soon."

I nod in agreement, and my thoughts wander off while Molly finishes the bandage and tapes my ribs. With his late arrival, Mycroft has allowed Molly enough leeway to prepare my double. When the funeral is over, I will have vanished from existence, and be free to pursue the head of Moriarty´s financial network. The price is that I died in disgrace, that I step into anonymity, tearing all connections to my previous life. My previous live. An image of the flat at Baker Street passes my inner vision, and I wince in response to this sentiment.

Yet, I can´t refrain to ask. "How is John?" I demand to know, my voice only a whisper. My gaze settles on Mycroft, whose eyebrows twitch ever so slightly. But he decides to play fair.

"Devastated," he answers. "In fact, he passed out in shock and has been taken to hospital to be monitored. He will most likely stay until tomorrow morning."

Annoyingly, tears well up in my eyes and I try to divert my eyes from my brother´s scrutinizing gaze. I feel Molly´s hand on my shoulder, tightening in a reassuring grip.

"John will recover," Mycroft says. "And you need to heal before you can start your quest."


	3. Hiding in Sussex

Two days later I find myself in a self-catering holiday cottage in Seaford, Sussex. Mycroft and I agreed that I will be safer in the country than in London while the press still rings with the "Fake genius´ suicide", and as long as I am not in the condition to travel.

I am the only guest, and my landlord believes that I am a brown-haired, green-eyed birdwatcher who has tripped and fallen down a slope during a hike in the cliffs. As the place is still brimming with summer tourists, and I am not fit enough to take long walks, I enjoy sitting in the lawn, watching the sea rushing in and receding.

My ever-busy mind quietens at the stunning sight while I relish the peacefulness of this place, not minding that this peace borders on dullness, for I am aware that these weeks will be the last weeks of quiet I will experience for an indefinite time.

When Mycroft and I agreed to feed Moriarty my life story, we knew we laid out the bait not only for him but for his henchmen. To rid the world of the consulting criminal would weaken his organisation incredibly, and it was only for this price I consented to my brother´s plan to use me as a decoy. Little did we know at that time about Moriarty´s vast influence on the financial business.

At night, I read and re-read the files Mycroft has left for my investigation. I also listen to the recordings of his interrogations of Moriarty, but none of his statements affirm our suspicion that his financial network is led by Didier Morbier, a Belgian proprietor who has been involved in the latest gouvernmental scandal in his country.

Assumptions and calculations are swarming my mind, but nothing so far leads to a solution on how to tackle Morbier and demolish his power.

When I finally try to sleep, exhausted from the whirlwind in my mind, I abruptly wake after a few hours, panting, and shaking with fright.

Dreams of falling haunt me. I see myself tumbling down from St. Bart´s, flailing helplessly, descending into a pool of fire. A giant´s hand grabs me a second before I jump. It squeezes and crashes every single bone in my body until I scream in agony. Moriarty grins at me viciously. His face explodes, and my vision fills with red spidery traces of blood while I cry out in horror. I lie on the concrete, broken, in agony, soaked with blood, when John appears, a gun at his temple, and I shout futile warnings at him, my voice inhumanly high-pitched.

And, worst of all, it is not me who is standing on the rooftop but John, and I am paralysed. I´m forced to watch him jump, my heart raw and burning, for I know my actions have left him no alternative but to sacrifice himself for my sake.

In the mornings I feel wasted and empty. The local doctor has prescribed a sedative, along with painkillers, but I don´t risk to take it. The painkillers alone are effectively floating my system with a remarkably clear reminiscence of a stronger drug. And at present I am only too tempted to blind out my subconscious, clear my mind, dim the pain I am feeling.

These days of waiting are over when my phone chimes. Mycroft has found an identity I can use. The man is in his thirties, grey eyes. His height and weight match, though he is built a bit sturdier than me. Rather was, for Eric Sigerson has died of an overdose of barbiturates. So far, his acquaintances in the criminal world haven´t noticed, though, which proves very convenient since will be able to use his contacts to get through to Morbier.

Even more convenient is that Sigerson, who was born in Oslo, has spent nearly his entire life in England and therefore never learned the Norwegian language properly.

As I study the pictures Mycroft´s men have shot of his body, I notice that a very nasty cut runs over his lower forearm. A knife wound, caused by a sharp blade applied with brutal force. Clearly, it was meant as a warning. The cut ends near the wrist, where it will be exposed openly by any layer of clothing.

Only two knives are stored in the kitchen drawers, but one is sharp enough to deliver a similar, deep cut to my arm. It sears through my flesh easily, at one point grating the bone. The wound is deep and bleeding profusely. But I will be safer with a recognizable scar. And I am dead anyway.

In pain, I let the knife drop and bandage the wound. My arm throbs as I pick up the notebook to read the dossier about Sigerson a third and fourth time. Born in Oslo. Grown up in London, been to Cambridge, left with a Master in Economics. Worked at several well-known banking houses first, went into consulting later. The past six months he travelled continuously, arousing suspicion among my brother´s people, for he contacted members of the net frequently, seemingly moving in closer to Morbier.

With luck, Sigerson will be my gate into Moriarty´s financial organisation.

* * *

The minutes are stretching to hours as I sit in the dark, waiting, thinking, until late at night I recognize the sound of whees grating on gravel.

Dizzy from lack of sleep and the loss of blood, I rise to open the door for Mycroft. His gaze travels to the bandage on my right arm and my pale features, and is eyebrows twitch.

"You could have used anaesthetics," he says.

"I won´t dim my mind with drugs. And it will be more convincing if it hurts," I answer wearily. "The people I am going to meet are very particular about details concerning the identity of those whom they trust."

He nods. "I guess," he says. He follows me to the kitchen and leans against the table, legs crossed. "Morbier has moved his headquarters to Brussels. He has been sighted with several directors of establishes bank houses and with politics, mainly of the finance sector. He has always kept an intricate network, but I get the impression he is on to something."

"High time I get through to him. I guess you have come to say your good-byes," I reply.

Mycroft cocks his head in agreement. "Yes. And to see you to the harbor. The coast guard is waiting to take a Norwegian criminal out of the country. Go to Paris first, find Andre Lelord. He is Morbier´s right hand. As far as I am informed he knows that Sigerson was one of Moriarty´s men but he has never met him. If you convince him of your talents, he might invite you to the inner circle."

"The talent of persuading and bribing," I remark, contemplating the darkness outside. "I would think this is something I do not share with that Sigerson character."

Mycroft draws closer. "Oh, don´t try to convince me that you are not the manipulative type," he replies lightly. "In fact, I am quite glad to not be the object of your manoevres for a change."

I continue to avoid his gaze. "The past months it has been me who has been choreographed." I turn to face him. "Both by you and by Moriarty. When this is over, I tread my own path again. I will not continue to work for you."

He has clearly noticed the threat in my voice, but he just smirks. "We will see. I wonder if Scotland Yard will let you on a case ever again after all this uproar. Let´s see how far you get without any."

His self-satisfied half-smile is unbearable, and I feel tempted to bite back. But I know it will infuriate him even more if I stay calm, so I just retort: "I will walk alone again, Mycroft. As soon as this is over."

"As you like it," he answers. "The sooner we leave, the better for you, then." With this, he turns and I follow him outside to the black limousine.

* * *

It is very early morning already, the sun just about to set. We drive away from the cottage and I feel strangely detached from myself as I watch the rolling hills of the Sussex Downs pass by. Mycroft steers onto the main road, and soon we have left Seaford in the direction of the harbor.

The humming of the engine makes me drowsy and I yawn, my arm still throbbing.

"Mycroft?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"If all this works out, I could retire," I say. "I would like to live in those hills, actually."

He chuckles. "You are a freelancer, you won´t retire. I am the one with a pension."

"No, you are basically running the country," I quip back." You are not allowed to. I, on the other hand, just need to disappear. Should have enough practice already..."

He passes me a glance. "True. But you only started practicing. Rather late to explore a talent, don´t you think?"

I smile, huddling closer into the comfortable seat. "I am serious. A traditional cottage would be nice."

The humming of the engine is finally lulling me to sleep, for I realize with a start that the first morning light is setting sparks of silver onto the grey surface of the sea. We have reached the harbor.

"There is your carriage, your Majesty," Mycroft says and points out a boat in the distance. "It will take you to Dieppe. Let them see to your arm. No use bleeding out onto them. They are already in trouble in taking a wanted criminal out of the country." He faces me, his expression serious, brows folded in concern.

"Good luck, brother," he says.

I grab the bag I retrieved from the boot and nod. My constantly worrying elder brother is visibly irked to let me slip from his radar. As much as I am glad to get away, I would like to deliver some consolation, but the words fail me.

Thus, I take a first step into the opposite direction.

I´m alone now, protected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seaford actually exists and it has a guest house with a Sherlock Holmes theme throughout.


	4. Proof of Identity

Paris is a beautiful location, especially in spring. Where London can be dark and depressing at times, Paris is easy and light. Even now, at the beginning of autumn, it is a place of elegance, of living in fluid, golden moments, a spot of joy and abundance. As much as I am attached to my home town, Paris has always been my favourite city on the continent.

As serious as my mission is, I can´t cease to feel joy that of all places, it has led me here. While I try to make use of the bits of information I can retrieve about the acquaintances of Didier Morbier, I observe everyday life in Montparnasse, blending in with the masses, fading into the anonymity of the French capital.

I feel estranged from my previous live already after only two months, every look into the mirror delivering confirmation of how much I have changed. A stranger with short brown hair and grey eyes stares back at me, who bears a dangerous sparkle in his eyes, his attitude of arrogance bothering on the unbearable. I have completely assimilated to my role and I am convinced that even in London nobody would recognize me.

It is with this air of arrogance I enter the "Jules Verne" restaurant on the second store of the Eiffel Tower. My contact has chosen a table at the window with a spectacular view of the city. He stands to greet me, unbuttoning his jacket, his hand stretched out in a formal greeting.

"Ah, Mr. Sigerson. Glad you could make it. Isn´t it a most beautiful day?"

I take his hand, squeezing it tight, smiling down on him. "Eric, please. It certainly is."

We take our seats and I regard my counterpart. He is in his fourties. His pale complexion is the result of a lack of exercise, though he still has the attire and muscles of an athlete. His suit is immaculate, his hands manicured, his watch expensive. It indicates wealth and a higher position in the financial business. He is sure of his position, as his handshake is firm, his smile one of courage and reassurance. But he is wary of me, for his smile never reaches his eyes. The prominent antique ring on his right hand points to either a relationship or some involvement with a group – whichever it is, I can only speculate at this point.

He regards me with a hawk´s eye and inwardly I must give him credit for his scrutiny. We order meal, and when the wine arrives, he raises a toast. "To Paris," he says, before he sips at his wine, his eyes bearing into mine.

"Before we indulge in our meal, let me assure you how genuine a surprise it is to see you here safe and sound." He smiles at me.

My heart stops for a second. "Why is that?" I answer lightheartedly, twiddling the stem of my glass between my fingers.

He sits back. "We thought we had lost you, you know. It is a shame you left England so soon. You´d surely had a more comfortable trip with our people than with the coast guard."

Now I realize. Somehow news of Sigerson´s death must have reached Didier and his people. I laugh. "Oh surely, I would have." I fix him with a glare. "I guess there are those who die by suicide and those who are getting away alive."

His laughter this time is genuine. "You are talking about our ever-so-nosy detective?" His laughter stops, his eyes narrowing to slits. He grabs hold of my left hand, nailing it down on the table. "The newspapers are still ringing with his ridiculous story. Shame he was a fake, don´t you agree? It is so easy to feign a career – to feign identity." He clings to my wrist, digging his nails into the wound on my arm and I nearly let slip a yelp of dismay. "How can I be sure that you are not a fake?"

I feel repulsion at the men welling up and the strong urge to tell him how much in fact I despise him already. Instead, I stay calm, a tight-lipped smile crossing my face. "Your proof is right here," I say, pointing to the bandage on my forearm. "Consider me loyal to your cause."

He releases my hand, tracing the wound with his fingertips. "Hmm, I wonder how Moriarty convinced you to become a faithful follower," he says.

"I was no one when I met him. He saw my intellect, though – and he played a game with me to prove it."

He is intrigued, I can tell by the spark in his eyes. I have to think quickly of a probable scenario to convince him. "Tell me about it," he demands.

I shrug. "Oh, not one of his bigger games. It was just a teensy bit of banter. He cornered me in my Dockland´s office, promising me faith and riches beyond my imagination. My first thought was that he was completely deranged. But he had me already contrived." I raise my glass, pondering the reflections in the crystal. "He simply said I could make a choice, that I could either walk away or join his organization. But if I intended to walk out on him, I would lose my hand."

My counterpart stares into the void, his gaze shadowed. "So you thought you could just leave the organisation and stop playing along?"

"I had underestimated him. He recently made very clear that there never was a choice."

"And now you are still waiting for fame and fortune?" he asks.

I look him straight into the eyes. "Fortune would do. I hope I can be a helpful extension to your powers."

The man leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. "You certainly are. Welcome on board, Mr. Sigerson."


	5. Not of the Angels

Andre Lelord is a man of the world. A very different world to that which most people know. He is, for instance, wealthy, and likes to show his wealth. His suits are hand-tailored, his shoes customized, his watch is an expensive, antique swiss Tag-Heuer. He shines with pride on his accomplishments and he bathes in the admiration of others. It is hard to imagine him without all his usual décor. If stripped of it, he will in all propability just shrink and shrivel until only a hull of his former self is left.

From the day we have met at the Eiffel Tower he has ordered me to follow him around the French capital, to the country and frequently to the airport to meet different individuals, sometimes celebrities, sometimes businessmen, sometimes members of the web. He has told me to observe, to learn, and I am aware that he keeps me under close watch while he threatenes, bribes and negotiates with these people.

Little does he know how intently I listen, how soundly I regard every detail of those meetings, always on the look-out for vital clues on how far Morbier is involved and what he might want to accomplish by bribing them.

On several occasions Lelord has shown an outstanding lack of self-restraint, slapping a waiter forcefully in the face for accidentally spilling wine on his trousers or shouting abuse at a concierge who was not quick enough to show him the shortest way to the hotel bar.

What annoys me most is that he is unbearably narrow-minded. He has the air of a person who has seen and knows everything when in fact he is familiar only with the small part of life he occupies. To be more precise: his assumptions on how the world wags border on sheer ignorance. They are based on prejudices, a boasted ego and a life-long habit of turning a deaf ear to everyone who attempts to correct him.

Not that anyone tries to, though. His acquaintances are either his equal in ignorance or stupidity, or afraid of him. Because Andre Lelord does not approve of being revised. He can, in fact, get very angry if anyone tries to readjust his opinions on the world, angry to the point of being outright dangerous.

I have witnessed several of Lelord´s outbreaks towards our clients, as he calls them, two of which left his opponents injured, bleeding into the carpet of their exclusive appartments.

While we navigate the boulevards of Paris in his Lotus, Lelord drowns me in rants and boasts on how indespensable he is to Morbier and the web´s financial network, which makes it nearly impossible for me to collect my thoughts.

I loathe the man, which makes it hard for me to stick to my identity as Eric Sigerson, especially since Sigerson, as far as I was able to deduct from the sparse information Mycroft could obtain on him, was a person who resembled a clever and devoted dog, salivating on his prize - a cartload of money.

* * *

It is on a sunny day in September, gusts from the west, from the Atlantic, shaking the trees, when Lelord steers his red sportscar through the Alma-Tunnel at the Place de la Concorde at high speed. We are engulfed by the darkness of the subterranean structure when he turns to face me, accelerating the engine, grinning at me viciously.

"You know, it was him," he says.

Boasting again, are we, I think, already feeling bored. But the glance I send him is a curious Sigerson one.

"What do you imply?"

He looks ahead, still speeding up. „This English princess. Diana. Her accident. Moriarty had arranged everything." Again, he turns towards me. "A true genius," he says, the dirty grin reappearing. "People are still forging theories how it happened, and why. He forged the perfect plan."

I try to smile back, to mirror his elation on Moriarty´s deed. Apparently not convincingly enough, because his face darkens.

"Oh, don´t be put off," he snarls. "He only helped to settle a quarrel between two families."

"Always the helpful type, was he?" I ask in reply, and he laughs and reaches out to pound on my shoulder.

"Yes he was. Now we will go and help a talented young man to chose what´s best for him." He closes the subject with a wicked chuckle.

Moriarty, how blatantly obvious! I have always sensed something was amiss in that tragic accident. But fifteen years ago, in August, I was not in the condition to care about the daily news, since I recovered from detox at that time, Mycroft being my only window to the world. When he finally told me that the Secret Service was under suspicion to have had a hand in the princess´s and her lover´s death, I was too preoccupied to analyse whether the driver could have been blinded deliberately and why traces of the varnish of a white Fiat Panda were found at the scene. Later, the case was sealed and Mycroft more than relieved that the record was closed officially. That the consulting criminal had a hand in the incident is a very plausible revelation, given how clever the accident must have been arranged to fool both the secret service and Scotland Yard.

We continue to drive in silence, all the way through to Montreuil, where we stop in a street lined with office blocks, right in front of a seven-storey building, all glass and architectural design. Lelord alights, wearing this unnerving smile of his which, as I have learned to recognise in the last weeks, indicates that he is going to threaten just another reluctant subject of Morbier´s twisted plans.

He places one hand lightly between my shoulderblades, snarling. "Let´s pay a visit to one of the most talented young men I have met so far. He´s a genius with compositing software – but unfortunately he doesn´t use his talent wisely."

Lelord steers me towards the entrance and I fight the urge to shake off his hand. Instead, I shoot a satisfied grin back at him. "Well, you will certainly convince him to take orders."

He stops, looking at me with an undecipherable gaze. "Probably it´s about time you took the convincing part," he says, eyeing me scrupulously.

I just shrug."If you think so," I answer lightly. Inwardly, I curse my disguise. As much as I have no intention to hurt anyone who is innocently trapped in the strings of the web, I am not in the position to back off if I don´t want to jeopardize my mission.

We walk into the building and climb narrow steps to the second floor, where Lelord rings the bell. A young man opens. Pale face, black hair and green eyes, big, fashionable glasses, young, not French, a fiancée, working long hours, prefers thinking and meticulous work to sports. Intelligent, too, for he tries to close the door on us as soon as he has noticed Lelord´s composure and threatening stare.

But Lelord steps in, quickly, grabs hold of his arm and hauls him into the corridor of the surprisingly dark office. "Let´s go to your sanctum, will we?" he demands and the young man nods, his face twisted in pain as Lelord bends his arm at an akward angle. We reach the room in question, and Lelord pushes the young man into a chair. The office is drowned in state-of-the-art computer equipment, notice-boards with plans, sketches and printouts. The blinds on the windows are closed, shutting out the spring sunlight.

Still pinned down by Lelord, the frightened youth opens his mouth to protest, when Lelord grabs his chin with brutal force. "Good morning, Mr. Rieger. It´s a shame I couldn´t make an appointment, since you never answered my call."

Why are those criminal types are so fixed on being called back, a very John-like voice at the back of my head asks lightly as I watch my companion closely.

"We made you an offer you can´t possible consider to refuse," Lelord says. "I hope you have made up your mind now."

Rieger fixes him with a blank stare. He is afraid, his breathrate accelerating, his cheeks reddening. But he is brave, too. "I have made up my mind when you came in here first. There´s no way you can make me take part in your scheme."

A wicked smile crosses Lelord´s face. He releases Rieger from his grip and faces me. "Our young friend here has lost his good sense of judgment. High time we help him to reconsider." His smile widens. "Go on, Sigerson, display your talent of persuasion. Hit him, hard," he orders.

I hesitate, but only for a second. In the back of my mind I can hear John say: "Not good," but I can´t refrain from Lelord´s order without blowing my cover. When my fist connects with Rieger´s chin and with his cheekbone, I am aware that I subconsciously tried to soften the punch. Nevertheless, his head flings to the side and a groan escapes him as he closes his eyes in pain. As much as I don´t want to hurt innocents, I have never shied away from cruel acts when they served a higher purpose. Right now, it is me or Sigerson, it is either my plan or Morbier´s. Not one of the angels, indeed.

Lelord claps his hands, smiling smugly. "See what happens if you make us angry," he tells Rieger. "If you make us really, raging mad, I´m afraid, the only way to deal with you will be with the help of a nice little bullet."

Rieger stares back at him, one hand covering his cheekbone, where my hand has left a red trace. "I will certainly not work for you," he murmurs.

Lelord crouches down in front of the chair and grabs Rieger´s neck, pulling his face towards his own. "Oh, you really won´t?" he hisses. "I don´t think your fanceé will be all too happy to hear that."

He retrieves his mobile from his jacket and flicks it into Rieger´s face. On the screen appears the picture of a young women, wearing a costume, who is leaving a small semi-detached house, a bag slung onto her shoulder.

"We know where she lives," Lelord says. "And we know the most effective way to destroy her pretty face. Don´t you agree, Sigerson?"

I smile back, hopefully cruelly enough, and nod. "You bet," I acknowledge.

Rieger stares back at me, then at Lelord, and his gaze is full of hatred, mixed with fear. "You – you monster," he stammers.

Lelord laughs one of his most charming laughs. „Oh, finally you do comprehend. It´s either us or your family. Surely this is incentive enough."

Rieger nods, reluctantly.

„Good. Let me explain. You are going to write this pretty little programme we talked about two weeks ago, and your lady friend will be safe. Probably there´s some more work to come, so you will leave your office open to everybody who approaches you on our project. And you will not tell anybody, least of all the police, what happens in this beautiful nerdy office," Lelord orders.

* * *

When we leave, Rieger stays behind, already hacking away on his keyboard. After we have left the house, Lelord rounds on me, and slaps my shoulder.

"Good work, Sigerson. I thought you were rather the squeamish type. With some practice, you could be as convincing as I am," he states.

"Does this 'convincing' part include shooting as well?"

He laughs. „Not yet, Sigerson. Not for you, actually. You are cast for a different assignment." With this, he boards the car.


	6. Causing Confusion

Lelord was right. My assignment does not include shooting so far. This part is covered by Lelord himself, who is not only Morbier´s right hand, but his contract killer. He is assigned to shoot everybody who is too slow to keep up with the pace of the web´s financial activities or who wants to back off.

From the day we visited Rieger in his office in Montreuil, Lelord has released me from his leash somewhat, sending me off to prominent financial centres such as Zürich and Frankfurt, but never too far out of his radar. Morbier doesn´t need me as a financial genius (which Sigerson never has been and I am certainly not), but as an arrogant sod who has the talent to get through to people easily, to convince them. It is an unbearable task for me, for I am forced to socialize with all sorts, mainly rather dull, business and finance people, for the past three months on a daily basis. Sometimes the negotiations were rather civilized, businesslike ones, other times they weren´t subtle at all, the threatening part being more relevant.

As much as I usually enjoy taking on a fake identity, posing as Sigerson is getting more tedious with every passing week. I am constantly under watch. Lelord never lets me go off on my own, and in several cases the threatening part involved hurting the subject of Morbier´s interest, like in the case of Rieger. Several times I have caught my reflection in the mirror of a motorway or train station rest room or in a hotel room, wondering how much I have changed except from the colour of my hair and eyes. The wound on my arm has left a traceable scar, a remembrance of my last step out of my former life. It is a reminder of what I have lost with the fall, as I secretly christened my faked suicide, of what I have left behind to be able to trace down Moriarty´s followers.

At night, I try to blend out the thoughts of London, of John, and I don´t dare to sleep long to avoid the nightmares of falling which are still haunting me. Frequently, I have been tempted to enter an Internet café to look up John´s blog, to check whether he is continuing his writing. This impulse is triggered by pure sentiment, and sentiment I can´t afford. Lelord´s people are watching me more closely than Mycroft ever did, and acting not in character to the arrogant braggart I am personating would be far too dangerous. As would to contact Mycroft to ask him how my friends are faring. I am stuck in this farce of secret-service undercover investigation for as long as it will take me to find out what Morbier plans.

But I am getting closer. There are rumours spreading within the web that the leader of their financial network plots on tempering with company shares. Rumour has it he intends to create chaos at Europe´s stock exhanges to gather capital to expand his imperium to Asia. And Lelord has announced that I will be introduced to Morbier when I return to Brussels from my latest assignment.

He calls me the day before New Year´s eve. "Call yourself lucky," he says. "Morbier wants to see you."

* * *

The following evening, Lelord drives me up to Morbier´s country house near Antwerp, just a short distance from the sea. The red-bricked building dates from the 19th century. It is ornated with juttys and high windows. Its vast garden reminds me painfully of our family home in Oxfordshire and peaceful childhood days. A car park filled with the most recent high-end products of the automobile industry indicates that we are not the only guests to Morbier´s New Year´s Eve party.

In the marbled hall, two guards are waiting for us. Despite their manners and secrecy they are obviously men who know how to fight, and they are armed. They guide us through the crowd which assembles in the hall and its adjacent salons, drinking, relishing the treats a vast and expensive buffet provides, exchanging gossip about their work and politics. I remember how wearysome my brother finds the receptions he is forced to attempt in his position with the government and how deeply we both loathed the celebrations my father organised at our manor when we were younger. I am still lost in my memories when Lelord leans in to me: "Hope Morbier won´t take us too long – would spoil all the fun." He sniggers, leering at a pair of young blonde women who stand next to the marble stairway and talk to each other. I just nod, for I can´t be bothered to answer. It is not a promising thought that we will probably stay for the evening. I am not looking forward to being forced into trivial conversations with the crest of Belgish and French financial professionals or women Lelord considers attractive.

The guards are quite insistent, and soon we leave the throng and noises behind to enter an office on the second floor. The room is impressive, all held in green and black, old tapestry decorating the walls, the blinds heavy silk and drawn, the fireplace alight, providing a comfortable warmth. The remaining equipment is not nearly as inviting, though, as it consists of a massive oaken writing desk facing the door and a chair occupied by a bulky man with a cheesy teint and a bald head. His steepled fingers rest on several files. His eyes are alert with something beyond pure curiousity. The man emanates power and self-esteem and his plain but appropriate attire indicates that he is not the one for bragging and blending, he is a force in himself. Except from the folders, there is no paperwork visible, only a slim laptop occupies one corner of the heavy desk.

"Sigerson," he greets me, his deep voice ringing with a most hospitable undertone. "I am glad you could make it."

"I wouldn´t have missed to meet you in person," I reply.

"Of course not," he says. "Especially not when your assistance is required so badly." He leans back. "I take it you have been successful in the tasks Lelord has assigned you to?"

"He has been helpful," Lelord answers. "As I reported to you…"

Morbier cuts him short with one tiny wink with his meaty fingers. "I read your reports, Lelord", he replies with an unfriendly smile. "No need to recapitulate." His scrutinising gaze takes in my demeanor, my suit, everything, leaving me with the uncanny sensation that he sees right though me. I briefly wonder if that is how people are feeling when I regard them in detail to deduce them. But I push the thought aside, sending him a self-assured smile. "You approve of my work, then?" I ask.

His already dark eyes are deepening in shade. "You would not be here if not. We are in the last stages of a most… intruiging enterprise. I do hope you will supervise one of the most crucial actions."

"And that would be…?"

Morbier leans back again, picking one of his fingernails. "Monitoring the process crucial to my plan. Going back to Paris and supervising one of our software experts."

"I´ll need more data," I reply.

The bulky man chuckles. "Of course you do. Not very far in the future, the stock exchanges will run wild – and the net will be richer than ever before. Now, there´s your challenge."

"I don´t comprehend."

He leans towards me. "The stock market is not so much based on facts but on feelings and assumptions. Terrorist attacks, political upheavals, natural disasters – all these incidents leave the financial markets in unrest. One could earn a fortune if equipped with visionary talents. Just imagine how much one could win if he could foresee the falling of a stock because of a disastrous occurrence. And if he can´t foresee an event coming, why should he not be able to feign one?"

Lelord smirks at me, knowingly, but I still fail to grasp Morbier´s concept in detail.

"You are going to simulate a catastrophe…"

"To turn the stock market in unrest, yes," Morbier confirms. "Surely you remember talking to members of different stock exchanges. They are all on our side by now."

"There´s your fortune," Lelord prods and I send him a leery smile. "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

Morbier picks his fingernail again, apparently a tic he´s acquired in his existence as the financial supermind of the web. It is rather disgusting to watch, and I surpress a wince of impatience.

"You already know Rieger, our man in Paris. He is currently writing a programme which will get us access to the supervising network of most European cities. Some other experts we…employed are currently hacking the media networks. We will be able to control the broadcast of most European nations and their security systems shortly. And then we´ll confront them with their deepest fear – that of a terrorist attack."


	7. Simulation Software

I fact, I can call myself fortunate, for I seem to have gained Morbier´s trust and he let me in to the innermost circle of the web. He told me enough to make me, Sigerson, salivate, for I know that as long as Rieger is safe and obedient, there will be money to gain, a lot of money.

But Morbier is very much a man who is fixed on his own interests and he will hire, and kill his subordinates without too much regret. I am his puppet, as Lelord and everyone else in his troupe of killers and criminals is.

This is actually getting tiresome: acting on Morbier´s behalf and at the same time avoiding the traps the other members of his team set me, the young, aspiring addition to Morbier´s emporium. To treat them with arrogance, a sharp tongue and rage helps a lot. After all these weeks of not acting as myself, I can finally release some of the strain and land a blow on the faces of people I despise and consider somewhat less than innocent. They start to treat me with respect, keeping a healthy distance.

It is a long week at Morbier´s manor, the first week of the New Year, and it doesn´t bear a promising perspective. The timescale for the web´s coup on the financial markets is already set, and I will need to act before it can be carried into execution. This gives me two more months to gather evidence, something I can deliver to the Belgian police.

In the meantime, the endeavors of the European Parliament to stabilize the Euro are intensifying. Morbier has bribed or threatened nearly all of the finance ministers of the European Union. The management board of Standars & Poors and further influential rating agencies are fast under the influence of the web and are forced to change ratings continually. The chaos Morbier wants to spread is already undermining all efforts of unity, thus allowing the web leeway for further criminal activities.

* * *

It is exactly the sixth of January I return to Rieger in Paris. I would nearly not have taken notice of the date would I not have passed a bookstall with the "Daily Mail"´s headlines screaming at me in a motorway restaurant. "Exclusive report on Fake Detective´s Life" it reads, and there is a picture of me and John. It is an odd birthday treat, but I can´t leave without paying and taking the newspaper with me to the car. Several kilometers down the motorway I stop at a parking area. The story is simple and full of incorrect facts, still claiming that every single one of my achievements was faked, that I was a deranged, self-conscious depressant seeking attention. What pains me, though, is that the author states that John only once, at my funeral, gave a statement to the press. He said he will "always believe in my best friend".

This is no proof at all that he is getting on well, but it is enough to make me linger in the car after I have abandoned the paper, staring into the void, seeing nothing, reminiscing. At last, I turn the ignition and drive away, much faster than necessary, fleeing from feelings which are not called for and dangerous at the moment.

Rieger awaits me with contempt. I can´t blame him, since I am one of the bad guys in this game. I threatened him, and I am his keeper for the next month. The task is tedious: making sure he will work on his computer programme without trying to contact people who are not connected to Morbier. My predecessors have set up a daily routine as well as a strict procedure for passwords and security checks.

The life at Rieger´s office is absolute hell for me, as the daily tasks include no destraction except watching him closely, checking the security, going out to buy food and sleep for some hours. What once was a perfectly nice and modern flat in a modern, well-designed building is now a prison. As the blinds on the windows are to stay closed and no widow is to be opened, instead making use of the air conditioning, the situation gets unbearable.

February is nearly past, when one day I doze off unexpectedly. Rieger and I haven´t talked much in the past weeks, he busying himself with his task, I retreating into my mind whenever possible to shut out my surroundings and be able to last under these conditions. To my surprise, I find Rieger grabbing my shoulder, talking to me. Still dizzy with sleep, I can´t grasp what he tells me.

He backs off when he sees I am awake, slumping down on his chair.

"What is it?" I manage to ask coldly.

"Bad dream,",he says. "You were screaming."

Did I sleep that fast? How negligent. "Not your concern," I snarl.

"I thought you were going to attack me," he answers. "You were uttering threats at someone. You muttered something about a gun and a bomb. And a heart."

"None of your business. Back to work," I reject him, realizing that the emotional strain of my task is taking its toll. The meeting with Moriarty at the pool has ceased to haunt me for a while, but shortly after the incident the idea of the criminal going after John was enough to drive me into relapsing. These memories recurring does signify that I am strained to the limit, and need to be even more careful.

Watching Rieger´s back, I ponder my chances when my mobile rings. "Hi Eric," Lelord greets me with false cheer, "hope you are still in charge?"

"What is it?" I ask.

"Ohhh, already the big boss of the computer lab, are you? Morbier wants the programme, now. Grab a memory stick and move your ass to Brussels. Didier will take your place."

"Why Didier?" I ask, knowing all too well that he is as apt with firearms as Lelord is.

Lelord chuckles. "You know quite well why. Not yet time for you to get your hands dirty. The stick might suffer irreparable damage."

I cut the line, assuring Lelord of my imminent departure, then leave. On my way back out of Paris, I stop only briefly to call the police to Rieger´s office.


	8. A Case of Self-Defence

Alerting the French police of an attempted murder at an office block in Montreuil might have been a big mistake. There is no way, though, that I could have driven away and left Rieger to his fate. With some luck, the police might be able to make sense of some of the evidence in the flat. Many of the web´s activities are software-based and Rieger was not only responsible for the extensive computer programme I now keep on two memory sticks. They might even be able to question Rieger about his activities for the web, and his answers should give the authorities an idea of the plans of Moriarty´s gang.

They will find evidence of my presence, too, but this is not my greatest problem at the moment. The problem is Lelord. He calls me as soon as I pass the Belgian border. "Change of plan," he sneers. "Morbier is not in the mood for a reception. I will meet you at the Gare de Bruxelles-Midi."

As I drive through the city I am already working on a plan. Lelord demanding to meet me at some inconspicuous spot makes me suspicious of his intentions. He is a man who follows his own plans, and he clearly sees me as a threat to Morbier´s favor.

At the station he doesn't board the car but makes me get off to take the driver´s seat himself. He flashes me a dangerous grin. "Let´s go on a pleasureable trip to the country," he says, and off we drive. It doesn´t take long for me to realize that he is heading for the bleak, industrial quarters of the Brussel suburbs.

It is rather dull, I think as we finally stop at an old industry building, that criminals should usually meet in disused warehouses. Or go there to discuss trust issues with their minors, for this is clearly what Lelord has in mind.

"Get out," he snarls as he opens the door for me. "We need to talk."

As soon as I alight, I feel the muzzle of his revolver nudging my left side. "No tricks," he hisses in my ear. "Just follow my lead."

Three iron stairs up we have reached a gallery adorned with abandoned tables and the remnants of industrial equipment strewn on the floor. A wicked grin on his face, his gun still trained on me, Lelord retrieves handcuffs from his jacket and fixes my left hand on the railing. Then he steps back, still smiling.

"You are probably wondering what our small trip is about," he says. "Well, I was actually debating with myself whether I should tell you. It´s only right, I presume, to be honest with someone who´s facing his last minutes."

"You are honest? I bet," I can´t help to remark, realizing that there are not many options left for me at the moment. I will need to take him by surprise, but as long as I am handcuffed, I am helpless. And he has the advantage of a weapon.

Lelord chuckles and starts to pace in front of me, like a cat trailing its prey.

"You were a very valuable addition to our force, Sigerson. You have kept a jealous watch over Rieger, making him obedient. Your first assignment, something to be proud of. But, unfortunately, it will be your last, as well."

"I wonder why," I retort cheekily.

"Priority number one: leave no traces," he replies. "Didier has done the job with Rieger at Paris, now I´m doing mine. "

"Go on then, kill me," I prod.

He shakes his head, pointing his gun at me again. "No, killing you fast would spoil all the fun," he says. "Tell you what. You drop the memory stick and I release you from the railing. After that, it´s either three storeys down or I´ll shoot you – in the abdomen. A quick or a painful death – it´s your decision. I don´t care much which path you choose, but your death will be proof enough to Morbier that you were a traitor. Remember, I found our precious software on you."

I regard him cooly, flipping the device on the floor. "I have made my choice," I say.

Lelord draws nearer, his breath hitching into my face, the gun again pressed against my chest. "I hope you are not too disappointed with how our friendship ends," he hisses as he releases my hand.

There is the slightest moment of silence, then I reach out in one swift moment and grab hold of his right hand, at the same time aiming for his face with my forehead before he has had any chance to move. An ugly sound of breaking bone indicates that I met the right spot, his nose. Lelord grunts in pain and swears, bashing at me with his left hand, trying to rip the right free of my desperate grip. I manage to retain control of his hand, bending his arm down with all the force I can muster, so that the gun doesn´t point at my body anymore. Suddenly, Lelord´s struggling hand comes up again, but I don´t release my grip, even when he punches me hard in the face with his free hand. Finally, I kick out, aiming at the most vulnerable parts of his anatomy, and he doubles up with pain, the gun unvoluntarily and fortunately dropping from his hand.

I grab it and train it on him. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I promised myself that I will never again jump from a height on the request of a dubious character," I say and fire.

Hit in the chest, Lelord slumps back on the railing, breaking through a rusty part of steel, tumbling down into the void which he had destined for me.

Panting and hunching down, I let the gun drop as if it was burning. I have always been prepared to defend myself, but I have never killed. The shot still rings in my ears, my hands are shaking. Minutes pass by without me noticing. When I at last get up to look over the railing, I regard Lelord´s prone figure down below for a long time, still not able to comprehend.

It takes another thirty minutes before I feel less shaky and able to move again.

With Lelord´s death, I have come very close to cut the strings which bind me to Morbier. My next steps will have to be balanced carefully. And I need a plan to convince the Belgian police of how critical the web´s plan is.


	9. A Disadvantage

Driving back into the centre of Brussels, I contemplate my next move. As soon as Morbier´s men will find out that Lelord is dead, they will get suspicious. Knowing Moriarty´s organisation, and knowing that Lelord was trained on me, I am positive that his henchmen will trail me down to question me as soon as they are aware he has disappeared even if they do not discover his body. After all, the web has not become an influential force among the European administration and its economies by being a cosy place where people are trusted and loved. It thrives on strict control, including that of lives and fates.

To return to my small Paris flat is out of the question, as is contacting Mycroft as long as I am not in acute danger. Still, I need a short break to work out how to proceed. For this reason, I abandon the car in one of the larger parking spaces and walk up to a prominent pedestrian area where I take a seat outside a small café and try to calm my overstrung nerves with a decent Belgian coffee.

The adrenaline is slowly wearing off and I shiver in the mid-March sun, feeling worn and utterly tired, missing my coat. My hands are shaking as I pick up the cup. The odour of the freshly ground coffee and the taste of the warm, bitter liquid on my tongue transports me back to the morgue of Bart´s and Molly. I linger on the question how she copes with the knowledge that I have not died, what she has told the others. Molly never seemed really at ease with her life. But she blended in, much more than I will ever be able to, and she cared enough to help me.

Breathing lighter after a second sip of coffee, it is only now that I examine my surroundings closely. Just another slip of control, I realize, for staying alert is crucial to surviving this game. Shock and fatigue must evidently have taken their toll on my ability to observe. But there is nothing suspicious going on. Mainly tourists, students, families, employees of the European Parliament and the odd dealer are about, all bathing in the early spring sun, enjoying the promise of warmth and summer the tepid wind whispers to them.

A group of friends is pointing out details of the historical buildings across the street to each other, several families watch a juggler on a nearby corner. All is friendly and peaceful and a stark contrast to the conditions at Morbier´s headquarter and the unbearable dullness of Rieger´s office.

I have not been witness to normal, enjoyable life in months, and my mind revels on every single detail, already kicking into gear to categorize every single aspect of the pedestrian scenes surrounding me. But I need to stop these observations, I need to concentrate on the task at hand. If I want to approach Morbier again, I will need to tell him a convincing tale of how Lelord met his fate. My knowledge of Rieger´s work is a threat to Morbier – one he will rule out entirely if I can´t offer him a priceless bit of information or a very special talent.

The peaceful scene of the public enjoying themselves is still unfolding when it starts to drizzle. As soon as the first drops of rain are hitting my skin, my tired mind wanders back to London again. John and I had been sprinting up to the Nelson Monument on a day with comparably unstable weather when John, being already exhausted by a three-hour chase through the city centre in search of a suspect, called me selfish for the umpteenth time. One hour later, we stopped at the Embankment, the sun setting in fireworks of red and orange, when he suddenly smiled at me, telling me that he loved the chase even though I were an annoying git most of the time. I did not really listen to him then, being preoccupied as usual, but sitting in a Brussels café one year later, my coffee finished, I realize that John had simply made clear that I own his heart. That, in fact, I always did.

Pushing these thoughts aside I chide myself for failing to concentrate on more immediate issues. Probably I should better be moving to a quieter place. Placing several Euros on the table, I get up to leave when I feel a restraining hand on my shoulder.

"No need to hurry, Eric. Morbier will give you all the time in the world," a familiar voice says. I turn, only to face two elegantly dressed men, on short, the other bulky. Both wear sunglasses, both are blond. Only one of them speaks an elegant, refined French, though. André Didier, Lelord´s sidekick. Didier, who I thought had been taken to custody shortly after I left Rieger´s lab. Didier, whose presence is proof of how fatally unobserving I have been.


	10. A Sound Beating

We drive in silence, Didier on the wheel, his sidekick watching me closely every now and again in the rear view mirror.

If there was a competition on how often one can get himself handcuffed in one day, I would certainly stand a good chance of winning today´s trophy. It is not comfortable at all for someone my height to be bundled up in the back seat of a small Renault with both hands locked tightly together. And it hardly leaves enough room for expertness. Still, I manage to get hold of my mobile and to speed-dial the number of a department of the Belgian police I have picked for its experience on terrorist attacks. Hopefully, they will stay tuned to the call.

"So Morbier has finally fixed a date when to strike?" I ask.

Didier looks into the mirror, grim. "That's not your concern at the moment."

"What is, then?"

His nameless companion turns to face me. "You were going to sell our software. And you called the police to Rieger´s flat. That was not very clever of you, Sigerson."

"I wasn´t going to sell anything," I reply.

"Oh, sure you were. Lelord must have gotten suspicious. Otherwise he would not have been confronting you."

"Lelord is an idiot," I say, which earns me a sneer from Didier. "Are you talking about the simulation software for our big event? Blowing up Europe´s financial economy? How am I supposed to sell anything so specifically designed for one certain purpose to another organization?"

Didier´s sidekick snickers. "Don´t pretent to be stupid. You can always sell it to the authorities." There we are. The idiot has acknowledged that this specific software exists. Surely the Belgian police can´t be as uncomprehending as to not get suspicious by now.

"The authorities presume me dead. How do you think I would be able to approach them without blowing my cover?"

Didier sends me another glance. "You would do anything for money, Sigerson. And you would kill for money, too."

I stare back at him. "You think I killed Lelord? Why kill him in the middle of our preperations for the Big Bang?" Name it again, get our listeners on the track.

Didier sneers, accelerating. "You two weren´t very keen on each other, I registered. When he got in your way, you shot him."

I laugh. "He is the sniper. He wanted to shoot me to preserve the web´s plan to cause chaos on Europe´s financial markets. He wanted the software for himself, he wanted to trigger the fake terrorist attack on the most important financial centers in Europe."

"Shut up," Didier orders, sharply. "You killed Lelord. I wonder how Morbier will react to the news," he adds, calmer.

"I wonder how the web will proceed with its plan. Surely the simulation software needs to be implemented on several servers. Is this why I was assigned to bribe and threaten selected members of the most important stock exchanges´ advisory boards?"

"I told you to shut up," Didier answers. "Morbier will surely talk to you about all this. As I said, he has all the time in the world."

"Ah, and this is why we are driving towards the sea, to Morbier´s house," I retort.

Didier looks at me, his gaze turning into one of realization. He hits the brakes, hard, and the car comes to a sudden stop. He gets out, furious, hauling me from the back seat, padding my clothes with steady hands. At last, his hand slips into my pocket and he retrieves my mobile. Recognising the number, he disconnects the call. A cruel smile curls his lips. Drawing dangerously close, he places one hand on my throat, squeezing tight.

"I knew it," he spits. "You called the police. You´ve already made your deal with them, have you?" His cruel smile deepens. "You know what happens to traitors to the web. I will be only too happy to assist in your execution," he says, pushing me back brutally against a wall. "Morbier will be pleased we delivered him the latest threat to his masterplan. He won´t mind some damage to the evidence, though," he adds with a vicious grin, nodding at his sidekick, still restraining me against the cold, unrelenting stone. On his signal, his friend draws nearer, eyeing me, flexing his hands. Without further hesitation, he deliberately delivers several heavy blows to my stomach and chest.

He is stronger than he looks, and he systematically takes aim at the most sensitive spots. I try to kick him, but Didier slaps my face repeatedly and ruthlessly, tightening his grasp on my windpipe until my vision swims, and my limbs fail me. When his helpful companion is finished and Didier finally releases me, I slump down on the pavement, drawing in painful gasps of breath, choking, bile rising in my throat.

Didier turns to climb back into the car, clutching my mobile in his hand. "I don´t think you´ll need this anymore," he remarks lightly, dropping the device out of the window as he takes his seat and starts the engine.

His nameless thug has already hauled me into the back of the car, where I curl up, still panting. Pain is clawing with mercyless fingers at my entire body, and I close my eyes, wishing me back to some friendlier day sometime in a recent past, back to Baker Street.

Finally, breathing gets easier and I am able to collect my thoughts. It looks as if my fate were up to a fifty-fifty chance once again. Either the police knows Morbier´s whereabouts and has already found out something weird is going on or Morbier will deal with me in his most unpleasant and definite way.


	11. Narrow Escape

Morbier´s study looks more inviting this late March afternoon than it did in December. The heavy green velvet curtains are drawn and rays of evening sunlight lighten the surface of his oaken desk. The man himself looks as cheesy as ever, his cheeks an unhealthy red colour, his eyes a cold grey, his posture indicating displeasure.

When we arrived, I half expected to be guided down to the cellars, where several soundproof and tighty locked rooms wait for the confessions of the less faithful members of the web. But our guards led us to the study immediately, making it clear that Morbier wanted to get straight to business. Didier couldn´t resist to jostle me on the last stairs of the marble stairway, and I tripped and hurt my knee.

Now the bulky, bald leader of the web´s financial organization is eyeing me, taking in my bruised face and the way I balance on my right leg to take as much weight from the left as possible. He nods, meeting Didier´s gaze with an expression of approval.

Clasping his meaty fingers, he leans forward on his desk. "Sigerson. I am very grateful that you followed my invitation," he greets me with an inviting air and a false smile. "I am sorry that I can´t offer you a chair. You seem to be… a bit unstable compared to your usual appearance," he offers and leans back again. "You probably wonder why I wanted to see you. Didier might not have told you all the details," he says.

I sway slightly, regaining my balance only for the price of sharp pain shooting through my left leg. "He accused me of being a traitor," I answer.

Morbier´s false smile widens. "And of course you answered that you are none," he says. "But we both know that this is not true. You called the police to Rieger´s flat and you called the Belgian police earlier today. These are only the occasions we know of." He swivels his chair away from the desk, picking his fingernails.

"I am highly disappointed, Sigerson. You were a very promising addition to our force. You could have been richer than you ever imagined. And still you risked everything for a minor deal with the authorities." He looks up, his gaze boring into me. "Or should I assume that you were never really one of us?"

"How do you mean?" I prod, instantly alert that he might know more about me than is safe.

His scrutinizing gaze never leaves my face. "You know, Sigerson, I have seen many people join and leave the web. We´ve had our fair share of agents from all kinds of police or secret service forces worming their way into the web, too, due to our… unorthodox methods. It is not always easy to tell from the start who is an agent, but in my experience, the better the agents are, the more desperate they act. As if they had nothing to lose, in fact." He smirks at Didier. "But they are sorely mistaken. They can lose their sanity, their health, their life." Didier nods, smirking back.

Morbier continues picking his fingernails. "Clearly you have no interest in money, because if you had, you would never jeopardize our plan. No, you are drawn by ethics, your mission is one of honour. You are a knight in shining armour." Again, his blue eyes bore into my fake brown ones. "Since the web doesn´t have much time left until our big event, I am dying to know what your mission is and who sent you."

"Nobody sent me," I reply sternly.

Morbier snorts. "Of course you would say that. Don´t be stupid. I would suggest Didier accompanies you down to one of our special rooms and we´ll have a more… intensive brainstorming later." He leans forward, pointing at me. "It really is a shame, you know. I liked you. You would have been a fitting addition to the inner circles of the web." With this, he nods at Didier, who grabs my arm and turns to leave.

"Didier," Morbier calls him back. "I would be very obliged if you could leave the forthcoming reception to Moran and our special team. Please make sure our guest feels at home."

Didier nods and hauls me towards the door, his grip not as brutal as earlier. Still, I hardly manage to keep pace. The fifty-fifty chance I had has been diminished to an eighty-twenty one.

* * *

As I hobble downstairs, Didier at my side, I know that my hands are tied not only in reality but also literally. My mission of bringing down the web will be ended should Morbier´s people succeed in looseing my tongue with their refined interrogation methods. It is highly probable that they will pry the secret of my identity from me. If they succeed, my fall and disappearance will have been in vain, my friend´s deaths inevitable.

These unpleasant thoughts come to an abrupt halt when a shot roars outside. Everyone in the hall - there are at least ten members of the web on their respective ways up- and downstairs, the place practically thriving with activity – stops what he is doing, more than one weapon is being drawn. More shots outside and the crashing of the doors spurs the men to sprint into cover as several policemen with helmets and bulletproof vests storm the building. A megaphone call announces that eyerybody is to stay put and to drop any weapon, while several of the police men storm the stairs, already on their way to the first floor, to Morbier´s office.

Didier still clings to me, the idiot points his gun at one of the armed policemen and fires. Another member of the force has seen this coming and takes aim at Didier. His first shot hits my arm, as Didier has hauled me towards him to use me as a shield. But thankfully my left leg sags and the second bullet meets with Didier´s chest. He crashes down hard on me, pinning me to the floor. When the shooter approaches, I notice two policemen descending the stairs, Morbier in their middle, handcuffed. In the hall, the web´s people have already dropped their weapons, most of them are standing sprawled against the walls, getting shackled by the police.

The man who shot Didier bends down to me, shifting the criminal´s body away. He cries out to his colleagues that I´ve been shot. Then he notices the handcuffs on my wrists and his eyes widen. "What happened?" he asks me, in Dutch.

Concentrating on his face, I try to blend out the pain in my arm and the bleeding. "I am Sigerson," I answer him in French. "Your informant. Please call the British MI6, ask for Mycroft Holmes." He retrieves his wireless to contact a superior while I slip into welcoming darkness.


	12. Ice Man

Brussels airport, actually any airport, does not invite for a prolonged stay. Nevertheless, airports are usually equipped with prison cells which are used to detain refugees as well as criminals for a certain timespan. But while the authorities are often at a loss about the final destination for refugees, criminals will be detained in these cells during transit to a final destination - the country where their offences will be dealt with.

Prison cells at airports are far duller than those in prison, I observe. The white walls, concrete floor and tiny space of this particular one are driving me crazy, as they deliver nothing to occupy my mind. I am tired of the charade I played the past eight months, craving nothing more than to board the plane which brings me back to London.

It is ironic, actually, that I have finally ended up in custody myself while hunting down Moriarty´s financial organisation. After the evening at Morbier´s estate I woke up in a prison hospital, my arm in a sling, my knee bandaged. The bullet had grazed the flesh deep, leaving a rather nasty, painful trail. The nurses, worried about the blood loss and my general condition, stayed adamant in refusing any attempt of questioning by the police officers.

After two days, though, the interrogations started. It was made clear to me that I was considered as one of the main offenders in the planned attack on Europe´s financial centres. The secret services of Belgium, France and England by were already aware of the graveness of the situation. If Rieger´s simulation software had been installed, England and the continent would have been led to believe that the most important financial centres had been destroyed by terrorist attacks. Stocks would have dived, chaos ensued. And Morbier would have been enabled to buy enough shares for a low price, gaining enough capital to at least triple the web´s assets, enlarging its power immensely.

The press still rings with the news of the scandal, the finance ministers of France, Italy, Germany and Britain have resigned. And I will be transferred back to England, since the Belgian authorities are at a loss how to deal with me as a key witness, since they am aware that I have been assigned by the British Secret Service.

* * *

When I at last board the plane for its half-hour jump over the canal, I am relieved to finally leave the continent. Nevertheless, I am far from comfortable, as I am still posing as Sigerson. Handcuffs link me to a bulky, grumpy British police officer who has made it very clear from the minute we met that he does not approve of arrogant, neatly dressed types who are prone to deliver snide remarks.

Still, I try my best to entangle him in a conversation about the foolishness of a single currency for all European countries. At first, he snorts at me, ordering me to shut up. As a result, the memory of John folding his arms, glowering at me and telling me to stop playing rude, that this is "not good," appears in my mind. I can´t suppress a smile which the police officer takes as an insult. As a result, he yanks at the handcuffs as the stewardess hands me a cup of coffee.

It spills, and his smirk is one of triumph as I jump in my seat while the stewardess starts apologizing, handing me several tissues. Satisfied with himself, he settles down on reading some crap newspaper – probably the "Daily Mail", I do not bother to take further notice – and I huddle back in my seat, and close my eyes.

I have tried very hard to store away memories of John for the past eight months, as posing as Eric Sigerson has consumed all my energy. Now that I am fairly done with this particular job, I feel my composure disintegrating. Immediately, I pay for my laxness, for my mind decides to rewind my friend´s desperate cries that day at St. Bart´s, triggering feelings of guilt and remorse. John never once wavered in his trust and I have lied to him, deliberately. In all probability, he will not be able to forgive me.

The announcement of the captain and the sight of London spreading out beneath in a rare blaze of golden evening sunlight distract me from my inner turmoil. The city is displayed in all its vastness and beauty, beckoning me to return home.

Our plane, bound for Heathrow, is caught in a waiting loop, and we fly over Buckingham Palace which from this height looks like a intricately sculpted doll´s house. The memory of my visit to this place merely wearing a sheet to annoy Mycroft makes me chuckle, and I am immediately rewarded with a furious stare from the police officer.

John had placed the crystal ashtray I had picked during our visit on the mantelpiece where it crammed up with "weirdo´s fanmail," as my friend termed the letters from desperate admirers of my art who asked me to find their lost wedding rings or wrote to ask if I possessed magical powers. Considering John´s hands-on-approach on practical things, he has most probably removed my belongings from the flat. Then again, he is more prone to sentiment than I am. I fail to fathom whether he is still shattered by my deed or has learned to cope. All I know is that I am relieved to return to London after a much shorter period than I expected, and to probably end this game.

When the plane has landed, the officer wakes me from my reverie by a sharp tug on the handcuffs. He steers me toward a side entrance in the security section of the arrivals terminal. Two guards equipped with machine guns accompany us to a small, windowless compartment, all white walls and concrete floor again.

A man awaits us. He is impeccably dressed, radiating authority. His cold, ice blue stare lingers on the bandage on my arm and the bruises on my face, while the officer removes the handcuffs and steps back.

"Welcome to London, Mr. Sigerson," he greets me politely, head cocked.

"I´m honoured that the government has sent someone important to receive me," I reply.

He appears unaffected. "Not this important. I occupy only a minor position in the British Government. I´d rather appreciate if you gave us credit for the comforts of your cell," he replies drily. He gestures toward the door, where a slim, tall man has been waiting for orders. "Please follow my driver. After you."

* * *

We exit the airport through an unknown access, avoiding the throng of passengers. A sleek black limousine is parked outside, and our driver steers it swiftly away from the airport and onto the M40. Eventually, he turns into a small Oxfordshire byroad. After a two-hour drive we stop near a river.

"You stay, Powers. I will deal with this on my own," the Ice Man orders, then directs me out of the car and into the moonless night. We reach the river bank after a short walk, hidden deep in the shadows.

"I meet you at the manor tomorrow evening," Mycroft says while he passes me a small object. "It´s about a three mile walk from here. South. You still know you way around, I guess."

I smile, fingering the key. "I do, brother dear. As it is pretty uncomfortable to take a walk in wet clothes, I hope you´ve switched the water heater on."

He cocks his head. "You know I´d do anything for your wellbeing, Sherlock," he answers, retrieving a small handgun. "As long as you jump when I pull the trigger."

"Why is it that everybody wants to see me jump?" I sigh, twitching a brow.

"Because you are a nuisance of a highly-functioning sociopath," Mycroft replies, aiming the gun towards the water.

The instance the shot roars, I am already diving deep.


	13. Home, but not Home

Stalking through shrubs and woods in wet clothes on a cold April night is tedious. By the time I enter Holmes Manor through its back entrance, I am frozen to the bones. The vastness of the place feels strangely unfamiliar, and I hurriedly retreat to the kitchen, one of my favourite rooms in this house.

Mycroft has stocked the fridge with ample provisions. He has let the water heat as well, I notice gratefully.

In the adjacent cook´s flat I step into the shower, disposing Sigerson´s clothes in a bin. The veil of hot water hits me seconds later and my body warms up under the refreshing spray. Finished and dry, I remove the contact lenses and crop my hair, which has grown during the two weeks spent in Belgian custody and shows its black roots again. The mirror reflects a clear image of my own blue eyes, and I smile back at the surprised expression on my face, welcoming a large part of me back.

The clothes Mycroft has chosen are not my usual attire, but practical: Jeans, a Shirt and a blue, exquisitely light cashmere jumper. My astonishment is genuine, though, when I find my coat - that coat – in the bedroom´s wardrobe. Mycroft must have been aware of how much I have missed it, he has given in to sentiment, but why?

My fingers trace the fabric gingerly, my senses suddenly overwhelmed by the faint odour of chemicals, cigarette smoke and bergamot from John´s frequent Earl Grey. The longing for my former live, for Baker Street, for John´s company, is nearly crushing my composure. But I need to keep a clear head. Thus I push any sentiment aside, grabbing the new clothes from the closet.

Dressed, and feeling much more like myself, saner and more alive than I have felt for ages, I settle down on the task of cooking. It is late in the night when I finish my meal and retreat to the bedroom. The heating has not come up yet, for the building has not been used for some time, and without a second thought I pull my coat on and settle into the sheets.

For once, I sleep soundly and untroubled through the night and late into the morning.

* * *

The following evening every single newspaper Mycroft left in the hall is read thoroughly, as are the memory sticks he placed together with a small notebook on the kitchen table. The Secret Service has gathered enough evidence to arrest several members of the web, and the hitmen assigned to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade have been jailed. Still, there is evidence that someone has taken command of the web. Who this person is still remains a mystery.

Deep in thought, my head rested on my arms on the kitchen table, I nearly miss Mycroft´s arrival in the early evening.

"You´ve already made yourself at home," he says as he enters, taking in the mess of strewn papers on the floor and the used tableware in the sink.

"I am at home."

"Not for long, I´m afraid. I don´t think it would be wise if you stayed," he answers, twirling his umbrella. His forehead crinkles in concern. "How are you?" he asks, glancing at my arm.

"Feeling myself again," I reply, tossing one of the newspapers aside, clearly aware that he was not referring to my mental state.

He sighs. "I am sorry you were hurt. If it had been avoidable…"

"Look, Mycroft, this was a dangerous assignment. I survived. Morbier got arrested. Case closed", I reply impatiently, grabbing several pages and pushing them into a heap. "My next move will be to find the new leader of the web. Certainly not a safe task, too."

My brother draws nearer, abandoning his umbrella at the sink and sits down. "As I said, I don´t consider it wise for you to stay," he says sternly.

I stare him down. "We´ve already discussed this, Mycroft. As soon as Moriarty´s financial network is destroyed I will return to London."

He regards me with an odd expression bordering on pity. "I know how much you would like to go back home. But you are not safe yet."

"I will be as safe as I want to be," I snap, sharper than intended. As much as my brother has his own plans for me I am not at all ready to comply to his wishes.

Sensing my tension, he shakes his head. "Sherlock, you can´t walk around London unharmed for long. We´ve recorded several calls recently where members of Moriarty´s organization discussed the possibility that you are still alive. They got more than suspicious about the efficiency with which the police forces disclosed Morbier´s plans."

As much as I loathe it, Mycroft has a point. Although Moriarty´s web has significantly lost power by the cut of its financial supplies, it is far from nearing destruction. And as long as Moriarty´s intimates are not caught, my return could jeopardize any advantage we still have on them. And, of course, everyone who is closely associated with me.

Gazing out into the darkening garden, I simply ask: "How long?"

Mycroft gets up and draws nearer, standing next to me, his hand lingering on my shoulder. "As long as rumours persist. If we don´t deliver living proof to their theory they should soon feel safe again."

"This can be indefinite," I say, turning to face him. "You don't expect me to lie low for an indefinite time span?"

"I want you to lie low for at least six months," he says. "Preferably at some remote place. Where nobody would recognize you at all."

"Which?"

He smiles. "Your choice, Sherlock."

I ponder his offer. In fact, there are several places I have always wanted to see. Not as a fugitive though. They all have their sights and characteristics, but there is one… "Nepal," I prod. "Six months in Nepal, then I´ll be back in London."

He nods, approvingly. "It is Nepal, then. About your return…"

"I refuse to debate this, Mycroft. I return in six months, except circumstances impede me. I won´t continue to abide to your rules."

Mycroft sighs, reading my stubbornness exactly for what it is - resentment of the fact that he has meddled with my plans for the past year and a half. "Do I really need to remind you that you can´t come back before it is safe for everyone - including John?" he asks.

My stony gaze settles on his. "Of course not," I reply, hoarsely.

He has spotted something in my expression which stops him from pursuing the subject further. Instead, he turns to face the stove. "Let´s make dinner, then," he offers. "I can fill you in on the newest developments later."

Sitting at the table, snuggling into my coat and watching my ever-so-aloof brother do the cooking I wonder how fast and dramatically things have changed in the past months.


	14. Brothers, after all

In the second night at Holmes Manor, my nightmares return with a vengeance.

This time, three snipers are positioned on the roof, all trained on me, and John shouts up from below. A thunderstorm sends black clouds and lightning over London. In the heavy rain, Moriarty raises his arms in triumph, as he watches me step onto the ledge, trembling. I jump and I fall, aware of my certain death, raindrops hitting me like bullets. Then John is there, holding a gun to his head. His lips form the word "goodbye" and he fires. I cry out in awe. His blood lashes out in hot, red flames. They hit me, and I ignite with the heat of John´s rage. I try to fight the fire and thrash out hopelessly, whimpering John´s name, tossing in search of evidence that he hasn´t left me, when I hear a soothing voice speaking to me and feel strong hands gripping my shoulders.

Fully awake now, I sense the presence of my brother. The darkness is broken by the light of the bedside lamp. Mycroft touches my forehead and frowns. "You are burning," he says.

A fever. My body, it seems, has taken over and crashed after months of denying myself, of boredom and danger and my final escape through a river and the woods of Oxfordshire.

Mycroft leans back. "You had a bad dream. You were screaming, actually," he says and I can read the question in his statement even though he doesn´t ask openly. He looks away, folding his hands on his chest, radiating unease. This situation is not new to both of us, only that my condition was far more serious the last time he nursed me. He shifts uneasily, cocking an eyebrow, and I sigh.

"Get back to bed, Mycroft. I have been coping with these dreams for the past eight months."

"You dream of dying," he states and, again, it is not a question.

"I dream of losing the game."

"So far, you haven´t lost. The blow on Moriarty´s network was very efficient. And Moriarty is dead. Sleep now."

Sinking back into the cushions, I close my eyes and nod. He will not learn from me that I am worried sick for John, even for Mycroft, that I frequently doubt my own existence because my actions bring danger to those I love.

He stands and flicks me a smile. "I wish I could make them cease," he says.

"It´s more important to set an end to the web´s activities," I answer. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

He leaves without another word.

* * *

In the morning I wake with a chill, and Mycroft insist on my staying in bed. He brings a light breakfast and medicine and I take the pills without any predictable rant on why he would want to drug me on purpose. It is rather funny, though, to observe him following every bite I take with hawk´s eyes.

"I´m off my feed," I tell him. "Don´t fuss more than John, would you?."

Later, he leaves for London, and in my dreams I go with him, running through familiar streets on just another chase, absorbing the smells and sounds of my hometown, feeling invincible.

In the evening, the fever has receded, and I desperately wish for my violin. While pursuing Morbier, it was too dangerous to display my musical skill even at my Paris flat, since Sigerson was not the musical type. Now that I am myself again the longing for my instrument gets stronger by the minute. Stripped of its presence, I am left to practising the fingering of my favourite pieces. Unrest is building up in my chest, an unhealthy kind of nervousness, the one which shreds my mind to pieces and leaves me stripped of any trace of patience with the world and its inhabitants.

This is why I snap at Mycroft upon his return, threatening to leave and pursue the hunt for Moriarty´s followers on my own. It needs only one look by him, eyebrows cocked, for me to falter and hunch down on one of the kitchen chairs, silenced by his unspoken request.

He knows I am close to breaking point and wonders about the consequences.

"Your violin is still at the flat", he says, finding the correct link. "John wouldn´t talk to me and I didn´t have the time to persuade him."

How could I forget? John must have been mad at Mycroft, when my brother confessed that he fed Moriarty information about me. Obviously, I am not the only person who might not be forgiven his treachery.

Mycroft shifts, retrieving several heavy manila folders. "You need a distraction. This is what we have learned about Moriarty´s organization recently."

"An awful lot of paperwork. I take it that the passports and visa need some time?"

"Ten to twelve days the shortest." He pauses. "If you prefer to stay somewhere else than our family´s home…"

There are several options available, most with the Secret Service, but I shake my head. "No, Mycroft. I´m fine. And don´t pretend you have considered it a possibility that I would want to leave. You have filled the fridge with provisions for a fortnight."

He smiles. "I was certain you have outgrown your resentment to the Holmes manor by now."

Resentment I nurtured ever since I fled from the estate on a stormy October night, never to return during the past nine years, balancing my existence between the intellectual challenge of my studies and dosages of several stimulants.

He is right. For the first time in a long while I feel I belong here – if probably only because circumstances forbid my return to my real home.


	15. A Visit to the Grave

Days pass by and I hardly notice the weather changing from crisp, rainy periods to spells of sunshine and finally pleasurable warmth. The fever has left me unsteady and exhausted and I spend most of the day indoors, again reading files and memory sticks Mycroft left me, occasionally texting him questions about details the reports don´t mention.

Lonelier than I have been for years and with no companion to fuel my theories with questions and remarks, I start to loathe my present state of existence. Thankfully, the evidence on the web´s activities is vast, so I can busy myself with scrutinizing every single possible lead on who the new leader of the web is.

It is during these desolate hours that I realize that warring with Moriarty was a small task compared to warring with his organization. And I discover Mycroft has taken more steps than I was aware of to diminish the web of its members ever since he held Moriarty hostage.

Mycroft returns late at the twelfth night. He finds me perched on the kitchen window, staring outside, itching for a cigarette, for a distraction.

"You took your time," I shoot at him. "Do you have the papers? I need to get out of here."

He steps nearer, his scrutinizing gaze meeting my dark glare and creased eyebrows. "I had work to do, brother mine. The parliament, the Prime Minister and especially Her Majesty are not amused if they are kept waiting."

"Work," I spit. "Exchanging hollow phrases with the offspring of the most spoiled families of our nation." I turn to face the window again. "I wonder how you can stay confined to meeting rooms and the Palace all day and call what you do work when you never actually go anywhere."

He cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, telling me with this gesture that he purposefully fails to comprehend why I round on him.

I start to pace. "Dear god, Mycroft, how can you, how can anyone just look at paper and files and try to find a lead, find evidence? I certainly can´t. I need to get out and observe, for god´s sake! My brain is rotting with looking at all these boring files. If this is how I am supposed to work from now on, I will soon need to find something more - intriguing to keep myself sane."

His advance is sudden and unexpected, proof of the fact that he is not to be underestimated when it comes to quick action, and he grips my arms tightly, rooting me to the spot. "Sherlock. Snap out of it. I can´t involve you in our investigations." Sorely tempted to bite back sarcastically, I tremble with rage. He doesn´t let go, regarding me with the look I have come to decipher as pity in the past days. I finally relax, and he lets go and runs a hand through his ginger hair.

"I never expected it to be so hard," I say flatly, deliberately not looking at him.

"I desperately hope it will not wear you down in the end," he replies and we consider each other for a moment. He is drawn and exhausted, his worry lines deeper than ever and I nearly regret my outburst. Of course he notices the change in my expression instantly, and nods. "There´s evidence that the web is planning on assassinating certain illustrious guests to Her Majesty during the Diamond Jubilee celebrations. We believe these plans to be connected to the recent developments in the Morbier case."

"Revenge?"

"Probably. Morbier will appear in court shortly. It is a shame, really, that crown witness Sigerson has disappeared without a trace." He smirks. "Still, there are several individuals left who held contact with the web and might know more about their plans than its members deem convenient."

My brows furrow. "They have signed their death sentence."

"It looks like it. We have doubled certain security measures and are getting prepared to search for snipers during the events. It would be most convenient to know who is in command."

Striding towards the table, I push several notes and photographs towards my brother.

"The organization entertains three branches. The financial is the most important, followed by the blackmailing and bribing business and some drug-dealing. The members of the web span Europe and Asia, their main base being London. This is where we should look. Regarding the material you gave me, there are three probable heirs. "

I push one of the photographs nearer. It shows a man of about fifty, with a round, plump, heavy face, a frozen smile and keen gray eyes behind golden designer glasses.

"Charles Augustus Milverton. Runs the Milverton plants in London and Manchester, machine building industry. Two years ago he was arrested for blackmail to the Health Secretary, but was cleared. It was unfortunate that the Health Secretary was found dead at his home shortly after, assumedly by suicide. Milverton was mentioned in Morbier´s circle several times, I have heard Morbier speak of him as a close friend who has a special talent to persuade people."

A second photograph, another man, tall, broad, wearing a Barbour coat and wellingtons, his face tanned and creased with wrinkles, his deep-set eyes and fleshless nose giving him the resemblance of a bird of prey.

"The second is Grimsby Roylott, a brute and a connoisseur of exotic arts and animals. He has been sent to court for clubbing members of PETA with a spade when they confronted him on the question whether he has been responsible for the transport of ten Siberian tiger furs to the Arabian Emirates through Heathrow. He denied any connection to the smuggling business, and appeared very surprised that suspicion had fallen on him. He keeps a cheetah and a baboon on his premises, though, and reptiles, presumably, and he is dangerously short-tempered. His nieces are currently running a charge against him, they claim he has abused them physically when they were children ever since they moved in with him after their parents died in a car crash."

The third photograph shows a soldier, a colonel. He is in his forties, blue eyes, blond hair cropped short, streamed with grey. Muscular and fit, he is displaying a smile of confidence.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, released from action in Afghanistan by charge of dishonor. Obviously he has had a hand in the distribution and smuggling of opium in the military forces."

Mycroft studies the pictures intensely. "Good work, brother. Moran is on our list, too. He´s a crack shot both with handguns and long-range firearms. And he has a history of violence, both against minors and captives." Clearly, I comment inwardly. Rarely have I seen a fellow human with a similar expression of combined cruelty and cunning in his eyes. The last one was Moriarty.

"He and Moriarty attended Eton. They knew each other closely enough," I say.

"Still, you don´t know who is in charge."

"I need more facts."

Mycroft pushes the photographs aside, considering my notes and the open folders. He straightens and looks me in the eye. "There´s no time left. My people will deal with this. You´ll be leaving the country on Saturday."

Raking one hand through my hair, I sigh. "The name?"

"Timothy Cushing. And the backup is Arthur Challenger."

The first time since my brother´s arrival this evening, I find myself smiling. "Challenger. How appropriate."

"Remember, it´s only the backup," he says. "You will go to India first and then proceed to Nepal. In your own time."

"Well, I have six months left, after all." It sounds nothing at all like travel, rather like a prison sentence.

Mycroft has picked up the slight change in my voice. "Well, as you consider going away as a capital punishment, you might as well voice a last wish."

"The last time you sent me away I wasn´t allowed anything," I can´t help to remark.

Had he his umbrella with him, he would twirl it in annoyance. "At this instance, you were not able to make a decision." He knew so very well then and I have tried so hard to hate him for sending me into a rehabilitation facility. Now, I hate him only for meddling with my life and for his constant aloofness. The past months, though, have seen us drawing closer together again, for which, as much as I would never admit to him, I am rather grateful. Once I told John that Mycroft is my archenemy, but in fact he now is my greatest and most reliable ally against the web.

Puzzled, he regards my sudden smile. "I have always wanted to see my own grave," I say.

"As you wish. We will stop there on our way to the airport," he answers and proceeds to the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets.

Together we prepare our meal and the evening passes quickly with eating and talking about observations we share on the organisation of the web and several questions of security he is currently debating with officials. When he goes up and takes his coat, I call him back. "One more thing, Mycroft. I´ll be Tim at the airport, but I will not go to the cemetery as my alias." Even before he can state that it is insanity for me to walk on London ground without a cover, he notices the desperation in my eyes. I don´t need to tell him how much I loathe giving up my own identity, he just knows.

"Granted, brother mine. But be careful." He leaves, and I listen to the sound of tires on gravel, before I return to studying the files.

* * *

The day of departure comes soon enough. Mycroft drives his private Jaguar this time, and I wear my coat. My hair has grown a bit and instead of re-dying it I have cropped it short. My contacts hide the piercing blue of my eyes, though, dimming it to dark brown.

During our drive, I drink in the sights of the outskirts of London, even the motorway, very much like a convict who indulges in the last rays of sunlight before he is sent to the dungeon. Mycroft sends me glances every now and again, but stays silent.

It is a brilliant day, the sun high in the sky, a light wind rustling the trees, as we cautiously walk up to my gravesite. The sleek stone is discernible from a distance and very fitting to my earthly appearance. We had talked about the gravestone and agreed on black granite. It was Mycroft´s idea to not display the date of my presumed death, probably because he harbored the superstition this would be a bad omen.

After a few moments, I am about to turn and walk away, when I spot a man and a woman approaching my grave. My heart lurches and I catch a breath. Mrs. Hudson, in tears. John, using his cane again.

Mesmerized and helpless, I watch Mrs. Hudson leave and John taking a step nearer towards the stone. He attempts to speak, turns, goes back again and finally touches the mass gingerly, as if it were a living thing, as if it consisted of flesh and blood.

Since I am standing at a safe distance, I can´t hear what he is telling my gravestone – telling, for he is actually speaking to the dead material. No, I realize with sudden pain, it is not the granite he is talking to, it is me. His unsteady hand and his every move indicate how grief-stricken he is. His hand finally slips limply from the stone, lingering as if the cold, black material could come to life with a second touch.

The wind changes and carries several words towards my hiding-spot. "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me", he pleads, stumbling on his words, his voice rasping. "Don´t be… dead." He hitches a breath and swallows hard, but doesn´t break. Shoulders hunched, he finally retreats from my grave, stiffens into a military pose and greets me with a formal nod.

To see the energetic comrade, the competent army doctor who unhesitatingly shot a man to save my life so desperate, so utterly broken, cuts right through my non-existing heart, and I feel much less alive than mere minutes ago. Involuntarily, I take a step forward, only to be stopped by the tight grip of Mycroft´s hand on my shoulder. It would be so easy to step out of the shadows and reveal myself to John, but it is out of the question. It simply cannot be. The irreversibility of the situation tears my heart open and rips it into pieces, just as if it was being dissected by a scalpel and left bleeding on a cool slab in the morgue.

We turn and leave. John, how could I leave you in so much pain, I ask silently. Not for any second longer I will be able to fool myself into assuming that I will be lightly forgiven should I ever get back to my friend. The gentle spring wind wipes away the tears that have stolen their way into the corners of my eyes, and I store the memory of John´s grief-stricken face and his retreating, limping back deep in my memory.

* * *

When I get into the car, stripping off my coat, my brother doesn´t break the silence. My eyes are fixed on a blank spot ahead, seeing nothing but the image of John. For a reason that I can´t clarify – or rather don´t want to, since in this case I would admit to feelings - this second goodbye is far worse, far more definite than the one at St. Bart´s was.

At the airport, the next farewell is unevitable. Mycroft accompanies me into departures, but not to the gate. He just nods at me inconspicuously and I leave, hand luggage on a lorry, blending in with the crowd.

Unlike Eurydike, I will not turn into stone if I look back, but I don´t give in to this sentimental impulse.


	16. Irene

Five months later I actually feel like a different person. On my first hike near Kathmandu, the sight of a mountain struck me as so unearthly beautiful that I spent nearly two hours taking in its sight. It was perfectly covered by snow, enourmous in its height and simply breathtakingly magnificient. The following weeks, I searched successfully for further experiences of a similar spiritual and healing impact on my battered soul, venturing as far as Tibet, completely disregarding the danger the transfer over the Chinese border might hold.

Time passed quickly with journeys to remote places and monasteries and hikes into the mountains, and I successfully managed to erase my home and my friends from my memory, replacing them with impressions of a high, cloud-filled sky, the never-ceasing winds and ancient villages nestling on slopes and peaks. After five months, in September, I finally returned to Pokhara, right at the base of the Annapurna mountain range.

On a very bright day with white clouds floating swiftly ahead due to the high winds, I enjoy a tea outside a small restaurant. The sun is relaxingly warm, and I am deep in thought about my further moves, when a familiar voice adresses me in English.

"You look far too fit and healthy for a corpse", a female voice whispers into my ear. Shocked, I turn to look into the face of the woman. Irene Adler, who nearly fooled me and Mycroft in what seems an era ago.

"May I join you?" she asks and smiles at my darkening expression. It is hard to connect the Irene I met in London to the Irene who sits down next to me. She has cut her hair and outdoor clothing has replaced her usually elegant attire. She is deeply tanned. Her eyes sparkle and her smile is as alluring as ever.

"Irene Adler," I say.

She shushes me with a smile. "I´m sorry, you must be mistaken. My name is Myra. Like the star. And you are?"

"Timothy Cushing. Tim," I offer.

"I like men with black hair and brown eyes," she purrs. "Say, what are you doing in Nepal, Tim?"

"Hiking. Seeking reclusion."

Irene laughs. "You look like a loner. But perhaps you would find pleasure in company, for a change?"

"Why do you think I would?"

Her smile is unreadable. "Because you are homesick, longing for news?"

"I am not longing for news from old acquaintances," I dismiss her offer.

She reaches out and touches the scar on my forearm. "Oh, but you would like to know about your adversaries, don´t you?"

Frowing, I silently wonder how she can possibly know that I am waiting for news from Mycroft regarding the new leader of the web. "I´ll always listen to a good story," I answer warily.

"It is a rather grisly one, in fact. Mind if I tell you in private?" Irene still traces the scar with the lightest touch of her forefinger, looking me in the eyes intently, and I see. The woman knows something vital for my pursuit, and she is obviously prepared to share it with me.

Whatever her motivation, I will not let slip the chance to learn something important from her.

"What do you mean, private?" I ask, and she tells me.

* * *

I don´t throw her offer down. Irene is pleasurable and beautiful, after all, and, as much as I hate to admit it, company. It suits both of us to pose as a couple since that way we can avoid questions about our lives in Europe, about our families. We rent a small hut in a nearby village. We stay together with her disappearing every now and again on some errand on her own, never saying goodbye, always returning unexpected.

She reminds me of a stray cat which will never curl up in my lap, but watches my every move closely when she is at home. She doesn´t advance on me, sensing my unease and my resentment. Instead, she tells me about her work for an Indian businessman who is closely associated with Grimbsby Roylott´s smuggling business. It seems that the quarrel on who is to follow Moriarty is not yet settled. Roylott tries to extend his smuggling business to China, whereas Milverton has a hand in bribing several European politicians, forcing small favours from them which are of importance for the webconcerning regulations and laws.

Several weeks pass. Irene leaves and returns, while I frequently accompany a farmer from the village to collect honey from the wild bees. One or twice, I return covered in stings, hands and parts of my face swollen, but still I enjoy the tedious task of searching for their hives and stealing the honeycombs with bare hands.

* * *

On a crisp October night, Irene returns from one of her mysterious trips and finds me perched in front of the fire, lost in thought, gazing into the void.

She sits down next to me, sendin me glances, but I don´t elaborate. Silence settles between us, and only the wind sings its song of the winter´s arrival. Several minutes pass, and I feel strangely comfortable with her by my side.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "You are lonely," she observes.

"The Nepalese bees were perfect company. As are the wind and the frost."

"And there´s nothing left for you to do except wait," she continues, unfazed.

I turn to look at her. "I don´t need the chase anymore."

"Of course you do. You are dying to know who Moriarty´s first man is, who the sniper is who was trained on John." She pushes her hand through my hair, and I flinch. "It´s a shame you keep telling yourself you don´t need human contact," she says and straightens a stray lock.

"I had encounters. Most of them were far from pleasurable," I answer her unspoken question.

Her fingers proceed towards my neck, gripping it lightly, and I feel my skin prickle. I catch a breath and she smiles knowingly.

"You prefer to deal with puzzles, with problems professionally," she says. "I am a professional, you know. You just need to make your decision." Her fingers proceed to stroke my neck and I close my eyes, gritting my teeth, trying to ignore the warmth of her fingers.

"I don´t think I want to," I say. "It distracts me from my work."

She leans in closer, and this time I don´t flinch. "But there is no work here for you to do. Roylott, Milverton and Moran are in England. You can stop thinking of you as Sherlock Holmes. Think of yourself as Tim", she whispers, her lips touching my cheekbone.

I tense and my eyes are fixed on the fire again, but she doesn´t relent and kisses the edge of my mouth.

I feel cheated and used and confused, but these feelings are connected to a forgotten past. Her light-feathered kiss is a spark igniting a flame in my body I assumed I had extinguished a long while ago.

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to lean into her touch, but I can´t give in to this weakness. I push her away, and she still smiles her knowing smile at me. It is not a victorious smile, it is the proud smile with which a collector might regard the newest addition to his collection, the dearest, priceless piece he has always been hunting for.

"You are a hunter," I say. "But I am not prey."

She reaches out to touch my face again, and I grab her wrist, feeling the hunger for her body finally collecting in my chest. "I am no one´s prey."

"You never were. You are a strange creature, a fallen angel. I promise not to plug your wings," she replies, smiling.

Without further hesitation, I kiss her. Even though this is not what I truthfully desire, it is a distraction, a new game of which we both know none of us will be winner or loser.

* * *

Hours later I wake. All tension has drained from my body. The fire has burned down, but I am comfortable, for a second blanket covers me. Irene has left, or so I reckon until she appears several minutes later. She leans in the doorway and watches me with a tender smile.

"You are leaving," I observe.

She nods. "I wanted to say goodbye to you this time. It was nice meeting you, Tim. Take my advice – never become a prisoner of your fears again. You will be invincible."

"I don´t aspire to be ruled by my heart."

"But you already are. John is your heart, your compass."

"John?"

She smiles again, a sad spark glistening in her eyes. "You were talking in your sleep. And it was obvious the first time we met. Believe me, if you don´t follow your heart, you will never be happy." Her gaze travels into the distance, but quickly settles back on mine. "Go back home, or else you will be miserable forever."

"I can´t yet."

She steps nearer, sits down on the bed and strikes back my curls. "Don´t punish yourself for leaving him. You did the right thing. But you two are an entity and you are broken, dead men walking. Put the pieces together again." She bends down and kisses me on the forehead. "Go back and confront Sebastian Moran before he finds you. He is leading the web´s drug-dealing business. You´ll find him in London."

With another caress she gets up and walks toward the door, where she turns and looks back.

"Goodbye, Tim. And good luck. Give my regards to Sherlock. Perhaps he would like to have dinner with me some time."

She is gone and I am alone in the dark, listening to the wind rustling the rooftop. Already, I feel strangely bereft of her presence, even though I know she has simply returned me the favour of her rescue.

It feels, though, as if she actually has taken some of my fears with her and left me with a new strength. For once, I am not afraid of nightmares as sleep claims me again.


	17. An Indian Ally

Only a week later I wake to the ringtone of my mobile. Mycroft.

"Time to get up and pack. Your flight is tomorrow evening at seven, Kathmandu-Delhi, Air India 216," he informs me, his voice as clipped and precise as ever.

"You didn´t mention London," I observe.

"No, because there´s an assignment."

"Since when will I comply to being assigned to a task by you?" I bite back, now fully awake, anger stifling the irritating joy I have felt at hearing his voice again.

"If I remember correctly, you did only a few months ago," he answers, rubbing salt into old wounds. My answer is a sarcastic grunt.

He sighs. "Let´s not call it an assignment, then. I thought you might be interested in Roylott´s business. His son will be visiting the Delhi plant on Monday. Our informant told us he will be meeting some Chinese contacts."

"Roylott is extending his smuggling business to China," I reply, already deep in thought. I can imagine him raising his eyebrows.

He actually sounds surprised for once. "How would you know after six months in the Himalayas?" he asks.

"Deduction," I reply, smirking inwardly. "My greatest talent, don´t you remember?" There´s no need to let him know Irene Adler told me.

Still, he gets suspicious immediately, but he hesitates only ever so slightly and finally lets my remark pass without commenting on it. "Well, considering your special talents, it won´t be difficult for you to find out exactly what is going on," he replies sarcastically. "You have exactly one week. Our man in Delhi will meet you at the airport." Abruptly, he ends the call.

I turn in my blankets, not yet ready to get up. The fact that Mycroft wants me involved is puzzling. There must be something to Roylott´s plans he trusts me more with than his own people, otherwise he would not put me in the line of danger. And there was an undertone to his terse instructions which indicated there must be something more about the whole affair, and he is hesitant to tell me.

As it is useless to try and find out what without any data, I finally get up and pack. As much as I have been looking forward to this moment, I loathe leaving the hut and Nepal. In the mountains I was no longer a fugitive, no longer a man hiding from powerful enemies. I was finally free. When I immerse into the throngs of a megacity, I will need to be far more careful than I have been in the past weeks. And I will be lost without a powerful ally, without Mycroft´s help.

On my way to the bus stop, I visit the farmer who has taken me to the wild bees and taught me how to collect their honey. He is a friendly old man. His face is wrinkled with laugh lines, his brown eyes sparkling with consideration, very similar to John´s expression whenever he is working on a patient. Sadness darkens his features when I say my goodbyes. He takes my hand and wishes me luck, then he asks me to wait and hurries back to his house, to return with a small glass of honey balancing on his small, worn palms.

"Please, take home," he offers, his smile warm and inviting. "You look for bees, you think of me." He closes my hand on the glass and nods.

Touched by his kindness, I finger his present gingerly. "I will remember you and keep bees – one day," I answer and his friendly gaze follows me until I reach the familiar bend of the small village road. Suddenly, I feel lost. To leave this peaceful place which already feels inexplicably familiar to chase down criminals again seems utterly wrong, and I desperately wish I could be home soon.

* * *

The flight to Delhi is short and unspectacular, except for the start, which carries us swiftly over a steep mountain ridge. The quiet of the mountains is abruptly replaced by the chaos of Delhi´s Indira Gandhi International Airport. Stepping out of the doors of arrivals, my mind is already running in high gear with the multiple sights and sounds of the whirling crowds, and a blooming headache signals the information overload it will be experiencing in the next hours. There are far too many faces, too many different voices shouting simultaneously, to make it possible to discern any details, least of all the individual whose task it is to pick me up.

"Taxi, taxi!" several men call me as soon as I leave the building, their hands prying at my jacket, clinging to my sleeves, but I don´t stop walking until a low male voice asks: "Taxi for you, Sir? No milk, two sugars?"

The stranger bears an enigmatic smile, all white teeth and beaming friendliness. "You are English, Sir? I can drive you to a hotel, good price, very clean," he offers. His black curls are slicked back, his eyes are a light grey. He is broad and muscular and does not at all resemble any of the other slim, short taxi drivers which beleaguered me earlier. He stretches his hand out in a welcoming gesture, and I take it. "Alright, drive me," I accept his offer. Still wearing his wolfish grin, he nods. "I am Chandra Singh," he introduces himself.

"Timothy Cushing."

"Ah, you really are English, wonderful Sir, wonderful! England is a very good country! And your Queen is a wonderful woman! You have a queen, haven´t you? She has celebrated her Diamond Jubilee, that must have been a very big party, wasn´t it? Oh, and the wonders of London…"

I cease to listen to his blather but take scrutiny to follow him through the crowd and out of the building, ignoring the outstretched hands of hawkers who try to persuade me to buy food or small gadgets. Already, I feel at a loss with my surroundings, the multiple faces, the bright colours, the unfamiliar smells and sheer thriving of the place short-circuiting my mind which can´t stop to observe, to collect and to categorize data.

It suddenly gets harder to breathe and I feel my heartbeat quicken as faces and movements blur into a curtain of colours and sounds. My companion takes a firm hold of my arm and steers me to a small yellow car, simultaneously prying my luggage from my hand. Inside, he turns to face me and flashes me his feral grin again, laugh lines wrinkling his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Cushing. Don´t worry, the sights of Delhi can be quiet overwhelming for a stranger," he says. "Actually, Mr. Holmes wasn´t too sure you would accept his invitation."

"There were no options available," I answer, and he laughs. "Where are we going?"

"Home. You are my honored guest," he says, scrutinizing my face. "Any friend of Mr. Holmes is a friend of mine." He continues driving, pointing out to me the sights as we pass them, turning from larger into smaller streets, expertly blending into the congested traffic of bikes, rickshaws, cars, pedestrians and the odd truck.

After nearly two hours, we finally stop at a three storey house. Never have I found myself so lost in a foreign city, as even with my skills of observation I find that I can´t tell where we came from and where to get back to the airport. I really am at my driver´s mercy. As if on cue he turns to me, gesturing toward the building: "Here we are, my friend. The prettiest house in Delhi – and your home now."

Actually, the house is rather nice. It is built of brick, has wood balconies at the front and shows faint traces of blue and yellow paint on the walls that indicate that it has been vastly decorated once. We enter a small flat where Chandra directs me to a room with a bed and a small wardrobe. The closed blinds shut out the blinding sun and the air is stale and bears traces of a sweetly smell I recognize but can´t define at the moment.

He sees my hesitation and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don´t worry, I won´ti lock you in," he says. "Make yourself comfortable, I will fetch some food."

He leaves and I stand in the middle of the room for several minutes, the sounds of the street muffled by the walls, my eyes closed in an unsuccessful attempt to block out the overwhelming impressions of our drive. Some time passes and I breathe a bit easier and finally feel ready to change into lighter clothes, abandoning my jacket and hiking trousers for a loose-fitting shirt and a light chino.

Half an hour later, I emerge into Chandra´s kitchen. He flashes me his shining smile again and offers me a place at a low table, pouring tea.

"Ah, you have recovered from our journey," he says, handing me a cup. "Mr. Holmes warned me you might get… confused by the chaos in Delhi."

Sipping the warm liquid, I look at him and he frowns at my scrutinizing gaze. "What else did he tell you?"

He opens his hands widely, indicating honesty, but his answer contradicts his air of innocence. "You are interested in Mr. Roylott. I have been following his activities for the past four months. He was into the smuggling business of protected species. But in the last four weeks, his plans have changed."

"Why are you working for Mr. Holmes?"

Again, he laughs. "Oh, straight to the point, hm? How very european! Mr. Holmes was very persuasive when he heard that I have been working for the Indian government on crimes on protected wildlife. He told me I was the right man to watch Roylott´s moves in India."

"You are not with the government now?"

"Oh, no, not anymore." He leans towards me, smirking. "They never pay well enough for the trouble." Serious again, he looks at me intently. "A friend of mine has been clubbed by Roylott and still suffers from it – I have made it my personal quest to watch him."

"I see. Let´s say I do have a personal interest in him, too."

He sips his tea, nodding. "I know. This is why I agreed to help you. You can stay here, my friend. On Monday, we will try to find out what the business with the Chinese people is. I know a place where we can eavesdrop easily."

"You know where they meet?"

Again he shows his enigmatic smile, all flashing teeth. "I know everything about Delhi, Englishman. You just need to follow my lead. Please, take some food."


	18. Tiger, Tiger

There´s one week time left to find out what Roylott is up to, Mycroft has told me. My first weekend in India´s capital has been rather less productive in this respect, since Chandra has mainly taken me to the sights of Delhi on his motorbike. Neither of us was wearing a helmet, but I couldn´t care less being a dead man anyway. Instead, I took an instant liking to the feeling of freedom the reckless speed and Chandra´s breakneck overtaking manouevres provided and I caught myself wishing we could simply continue like this for the remaining days.

My host is still something of an enigma, though I believe I can trust him enough as far as business is concerned. He has been very attentive, telling me anecdotes of his hometown, recommending meals, giving me advice on how to navigate the streets on my own. He even noticed my growing frustration with the never-ceasing hustle and bustle of the megacity and tried to explain details about life in India and especially Delhi in the hope I would finally settle with the abundance of life and colours around me.

It is not so much the diversity of Delhi´s streets which irks me, but rather the fact that my mind is constantly presented with too many details while I am completely stripped of my powers of deduction. Even though I am quite familiar with the Indian community in London, I am completely at a loss to tell someone´s profession or status in society in this foreign place since the evidence delivered differs fundamentally from my former experience.

Chandra doesn´t know about my deductive powers, and therefore fails to comprehend the degree of my irritation. He is aware of my growing unrest, though, and promises quick progress once we have tracked down Roylott´s son. In the meantime, he provides his anecdotes and litres of tea. He can´t know that every single mouthful contributes to manifesting my homesickness and expanding my frustration.

In fact, this is the first time in the past sixteen months I feel as if I am walking on broken ice regarding my mental stability. In the Himalayas, I was able to forget the fact that I am on the most important chase of my life. Now I am thrown back into the middle of it, and again I don´t like my part a single bit. Chasing criminals in London´s streets was hardly ever a game of life and death, but hunting down Moriarty´s followers is. And as different aims call for different measures, not my most treasured abilities will help me to survive, but simply courage and cunning. Or even brutality.

In the meantime, my mind, stagnating without any problems to solve, withers away and I wish I could stop it running in circles. I desperately want to blend it out, even if this would mean to regress to the questionable help of a stimulating substance. In fact, for the first time in these past sixteen months – and more - I am honestly craving a drug. Instead of relapsing, though, I drink Chandra´s tea and wait for him to lead me to Roylott´s meeting place.

After what seems like an eternity, Monday comes and Chandra appears at the door to my room with his familiar flashing grin and a pile of Indian clothes in his arms.

"Hi friend, time to get ready for our expedition," he greets me. "You should make a very convincing beggar, I think."

In the wink of an eye, he has helped me to dress and paint me as an old Indian beggar in a tattered, white robe. He tells me where and when we will wait for Roylott and his company to appear. The place is a famous restaurant on a street adjacent to the Janpath, and we will approach Roylott on its terrace, me posing as a deaf beggar. With some luck, I will be able to overhearing their conversation. It is a simple plan, but Chandra is convinced that it will work "since nobody in Delhi really takes note of an old, deaf man."

* * *

Soon enough, I find myself on the terrace of the posh restaurant, and I see Roylott´s son for the first time. He resembles his father well enough, the same broad back and threatening expression, huge hands and muscular shoulders. His company consists of three Chinese business people and one European, a man in his fourties, blue eyes, blond hair streamed with grey, displaying a smile of confidence – Sebastian Moran.

The men are sharing a table in one of the corners of the terrace, deep in the shade, but Roylott´s words are carrying to me quite clearly, since he doesn´t make an effort to soften his loud, rumbling voice.

"We can deliver whatever you want," I hear him say.

Moran, who has been leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigar, claps his hands. "You just have to order," he says. "We would be delighted if we could receive some goods in exchange, though."

The Chinese businessmen, who have been listening silently for the past half hour, nod in agreement and deliver their suggestions to the Europeans, but in a very small voice, so that I can´t understand what they are agreeing upon.

It doesn´t matter anyway, since Roylott retrieves a piece of paper from his jacket and straightens it out on the table cloth. "This is your chart. Follow our instructions and we will meet tomorrow evening," he says.

This is definitely my turn. It has been a long time since I practiced pick-pocketing, but I am fairly sure I will manage to distract the Chinese people long enough to get hold of the precious piece of paper. With the plea for money, I advance the group, stretching out my hands, mumbling unintelligible words and finally leaning on the table heavily, discreetly grabbing the strip.

"What the hell...," Moran exclaims while clutching my arm. His blue eyes meet mine, and for a second there is realization shining in his. "Wait," he orders. "Just wait, you bloody beggar."

I manage to escape his vice-like grip, and as soon as I am free I realize that my cover is being blown by my violent resistance. A frail, old man would not be able to easily wriggle free of Moran´s iron hands. In an instant, he knows something is amiss and he stands, quickly, aiming at me with a knife he has drawn from his belt. The blade collides with my still outstretched hand and mars it, before he wields it at an upward angle, cutting my chest. Gasping, I still manage to clutch the paper in my right hand, before I simply chin him with my left and turn, running from the premises, leaving the shouts of Roylott and the service personnel behind me.

* * *

Three blocks down the road I need to stop. My chest is still throbbing, blood trickles onto the pavement. Several odd looks from bystanders tell me that I probably should get going. I attempt to straighten and collect myself to walk away, but I have only taken a few paces when the welcome sound of a motorcycle comes nearer.

Chandra has come to pick me up. Despite my pain, I focus on memorizing the address Roylott has written down in bold letters on the crumpled paper in my hand.

When Chandra helps me onto his vehicle, the image I remember most vividly, though, are Moran´s eyes - abysmal wells of spite, wariness and brutality.


	19. Snakes and Ladders

Chandra doesn´t drive back to the flat. Instead, he steers his black Enfield 500 to a slum, where he leads me to a hut. A large crowd of people gathers in front of it. Several people acknowledge Chandra with a nod and step aside, their eyes lingering on my blood-stained robe.

Inside, a short, broad, balding man with a clumsy nose tends to a girl, fixing a bandage on her arm. Realizing that we entered a surgery and the people in the queue are patients, I try to stop my companion by gripping his arm, but he just slaps my hand away and addresses the doctor in Hindi. The man delivers me a welcoming smile.

"Don´t worry," he says. "My cousin can bring in a patient any time he likes." Hesitating, I bite my lip, but the man´s hands are already on my wrists as he drags me down onto a chair.

"It´s Just a scratch," I bite out hoarsely and he gives me a peculiar glace before he pries the fabric away with surprising deftness. In silence, he cleans and dresses the deep cut Moran´s knife has left on my chest and bandages my hand. I feel Chandra´s gaze linger on the nasty scar the Belgian policeman´s bullet has inscribed on my arm. Both cousins exchange glances, but none of them voices his question. Finished, Chandra´s cousin looks me in the eyes.

"This should heal nicely," he says. "But don´t play the violin until your hand is well enough." Puzzled, I stare at him and he smiles back and hands me two packages with medicine.

"Oh, how do I know? Just look at your fingers, they are callused. I used to play myself. You haven´t played for some time, though, the horny skin is peeling off in some places." He looks at me, scrutinizing my face, and nods. "You do miss your music, I can tell. You probably miss the peace of your home, too."

"I don´t know what you are talking about," I answer gruffly, slipping carefully into my clothes.

He just smiles. "Oh, no need to talk about it," he says. "Off you are. But be careful."

Chandra nods at his cousin. "We will be. I´ll take care of that."

* * *

Back in the flat, Chandra pries the packages of medicine from my hand and offers me a beedi. Our gazes lock, and he smiles encouragingly.

"You are nervous. I think I´ll better not allow you to take too many of these very strong painkillers."

I hesitate to take the cigarette and attempt to stare him down. With a shrug and a smirk, he leaves for the kitchen and returns with a glass of water.

"What are you hinting at?" I ask in my best commanding voice.

Chandra sets the glass down on the table and pries one tablet from the package. "You´ll need to be able to rely on your superior abilities tomorrow," he says off-handedly and laughs again at my expression of annoyed surprise.

"I don´t need a supervisor," I answer, surprise turning into anger. "And what makes you think I had 'superior abilities' ?"

He opens his arms, nearly spilling the water. "Oh, you are not the only one who´s observant. You look innocent enough, but you have been wounded repeatedly in the last months, obviously in fights. Your fingers are those of a violinist and the skin in the crook of your elbow tells faintly of your familiarity with frequent injections. News travel fast on the internet, you know. I´ve followed reports on the famous London detective who tired of his life so recently ever since Mr. Holmes convinced me to work for him. I was impressed by the amount of obstinacy his brother seemed to share with him. And he seemed an enigmatic character, all arrogant and smart-arsed, and being an addict, too."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead," I state, evenly, crushing the beedi in my hand.

Chandra just laughs. "Oh, of course you would know." Serious again, he steps nearer, handing me the glass and the pills. "And since Sherlock Holmes usually prefers to go unarmed you, Tim, will certainly not mind carrying a weapon when we go out to meet Roylott again." He swiftly reaches into a cabinet and retrieves a handgun.

"This one has been recommended to your using it by Mr. Holmes himself, you know." His hand fixes on my shoulder in a reassuring grip. "And don´t worry. I will follow his directive to watch over the living dead closely."

* * *

The following evening we hide behind a wall near the entrance of a small manufacturing plant. We blend in perfectly among the sleeping human shades on the concrete while we wait for our observation subjects to arrive.

In the early morning hours they pull up, and the Chinese business men, Roylott junior and Moran alight from a posh car. Like shadows, we sneak into the building behind them and hide in a small space between two rows of containers, while the four men stop in front of several crates.

Moran pries one of them open and proudly hands one of the Chinese men a plastic bag with a solid brown slate. "First quality from the best Afghan fields," he announces, and they nod their approval. Roylott´s smile is that of a shark who has spotted an outstandingly tasty fish. "I would think the snow leopard furs are not too much of a sacrifice for what we are paying you in exchange." Considering the smile on the Chinese´s faces, it obviously is not.

Roylott just opens his mouth to continue his speech and Chandra is already beckoning me to retreat when a sudden pain in my still raw wound startles me into a rash movement and my foot touches a metal sheet on the floor. The sharp noise rings far too loud through the empty space between us, and our opponents and Moran leaps into action with a curse, his torch suddenly blinding me, his gun settling on my temple in the wink of an eye.

He has been reacting incredibly fast, stalling me like a dear in the headlights. "Drop your gun," he rasps into my ear through clenched teeth, and I let it slip to the floor, not daring to move too quickly.

Moran´s gaze lingers on my eyes and proceeds to my torso, where trickles of blood have sept through the cloth. He snarls. "What a pleasant surprise. I confess I had this peculiar feeling we might meet again sometime soon. I bet you are dying to tell us who you are and what your business is."

Guiding me towards his companions, he prods me with his firearm and I walk very calm, attempting not to aggravate his already twitching forefinger. When we reach the crates he pushes me, hard, sending me crashing down on the wooden surface, its edge meeting with my wound. Gasping, I coil my arms around my chest in a vain attempt to protect myself from the pain while Moran points his gun at my head again and Roylott draws nearer.

"What is it, boss?" he asks.

"A recent acquaintance of ours. Last time we saw him he was an Indian beggar who displayed an unhealthy interest in today´s meeting place. I knew there was more to him than meets the eye."

Roylott addresses me in Hindi, but I remain silent, not comprehending his words anyway. In an instant, Moran´s look changes ever so slightly, his eyes lighting up with suspicion, when he grips my left arm and regards the scar on my wrist. He looks me straight in the eye and there it lingers again, the same mix of spite, wariness and brutality I registered the day before.

"Most peculiar. You know, I have heard of a man in our organization with a scar just like this. Grey-eyed, though. Norwegian. Grew up in England, speaks French fluently. Nosy type, messed with the police. Disappeared mysteriously from Morbier´s premises the day I was assigned to offer him a very special treatment and Morbier was arrested."

I give him the best uncomprehending stare I can gather with the sharp pain shooting up from my chest, but he simply draws his hand back and slaps my face. "You´d better tell us who you really are or we will find a way to make you talk," he threatens.

Just as I start to wonder where Chandra has disappeared to, a loud crack sounds and a shot roars. Roylott sags, hit on the head by a small wooden box, while Moran takes cover behind the crates. The Chinese flee back to the entrance.

For a second, I am paralyzed. My gaze follows a second small wooden container as it tumbles down onto the concrete and cracks open. There is a swift movement and a hiss as two cobras wriggle out onto the floor, quickly creeping towards where Moran hunches. He has stopped dead in his tracks, and aims his gun at one of the snake´s heads. In the same instant, I feel Chadra´s arm wrap around me, as he drags me up and off the floor, away to the depths of the building and out into the open.

Outside, for the first time I have known him he attempts to cover his concern with a broad smile.

"Close shave," I gasp, startling him into a laugh.

"Told you to be careful," he smiles, a twinkle in his eyes. "Snakes are lovely creatures, though. Let´s leave. Are you ok?"

I nod, still gasping. "As you´ve already pointed out, I am quite familiar with getting into trouble. Still getting used to the 'being-rescued-in-the-last-minute'-bit, though."

Chandra laughs all the way back to his motorbike and still while he finally steers us out onto one of the main streets.

Except for my weariness and exhaustion, I am still enjoying the ride. Actually, if I would be able to stay longer, I imagine I could honestly warm to Delhi and its animal life. I´m certainly warming to its inhabitants.


	20. Doomed to Crash

People scream, scramble from their seats, rush towards the doors as flames lick at the walls, cross the floor, reach for the compartments. The plane dips, its inner structure screeching in protest as it is twisted by the intercontinental current. I am glued to my seat, doomed to observe and deduce my fellow travellers, to read their thoughts.

A male, recently married, his shining wedding ring the proof, office worker, wealthy. His wife, in the first months of pregnancy. An elderly gentleman, a frequent visitor to India, tanned, haggard, wrinkled, wearing a shirt which barely protects him from the ferocious air conditioning on board. Two Indian students, on return to their chemistry studies somewhere in the north of England. All condemned of the vanity of manhood to succeed over nature, of the arrogance of sending millions of human beings onto their respective journeys high above the earth with the help of steel, plastics and carbon fibres. All of them, including me, are doomed to suffer their fate as an offering to the God of Flight.

The huge aircraft dips again, violently, and I scream, grasped by the pull of gravity. Suddenly, I am falling, a solid structure behind me, rain hitting my body, panic tensing my every muscle. The impact shatters every single one of the twohundred and six bones of my human body, but there´s no pain, only a dull throbbing in my chest as I cry out in awe. John is calling me in his best doctor voice to me to stay awake, to stay with him, to live. His voice is unfamiliar, strangely high-pitched and soft, and I don´t trust it and keep floating until he grips my shoulder.

"Sir? Sir? Are you alright?" the same voice asks and I wonder why my best friend is calling me "Sir" and open my eyes, only to find myself scrutinized by a flight attendant. "Are you alright?" she repeats her question.

Blinking, I stretch my legs, feelig the pounding ache of the knife wound on my chest. "Only a bad dream," I answer tiredly, my voice slightly slurrying. She leans closer, flashing me her best ready-for-service-smile. "Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of water, please. And a blanket."

She nods, leaves and is back in a wink, leaving me to the comfort of the thin blue microfibre fabric and the consolation of two strong, morphine-based painkillers.

One week in Delhi, and Chandra saw a need to ration my dosage. One week in Delhi and I have taken up smoking again. One week in Delhi and I know that Moran is the secret force of Moriarty´s web and as congenial an opponent as Moriarty was, if only a very different type.

After one week in Delhi, on my final journey back to London, my confidence whether I will win this game is rapidly faltering.

Mycroft has booked a British Airways "Class World" arrangement on my request, since Roylott junior is on the same plane. One of Chandra´s friends has informed us accordingly just in time. Chandra and I have watched Roylott checking in his luggage, and it looked suspiciously large for a one-week-trip. My Indian host has accompanied me to the gates, pulling me into a tight hug, slipping a small package into the pocket of my jeans. It held a plain silver bracelet, elegantly crafted, wide enough to mask the edge of the scar which marks my left forearm as long as I wear long-sleeved clothing. "Will keep you from harm," his note said, and I smiled. I felt bad for cheating on him when I entered the pharmacist, determined to buy some more of the tablets Chandra had so reliably made sure I wouldn´t take too many of.

They are not at all having the desired effect, since they seem to warp my already violent nightmares into even darker, futile scenes. And they are weak substitutes for the cigarettes I crave and not allowed to light on bord.

My thoughts return to the problem at hand, Roylott and Moran. Mycroft didn´t know that Moran would be in Delhi, trading snow leopard furs for opium, but he must have been suspicious of the man. The Colonel is obviously one of the most important people in the web´s drug-dealing business. He has most probably been promoted from being Morbier´s personal torture expert to his current position. But there is no evidence so far that he is Moriarty´s heir. Even if he is not, though, he is a very determined man. And he will remember my face, though perhaps not yet suspect my identity.

After nineteen months and two days and an eleven-hour flight I am finally setting my feet on London ground again, hopefully to never leave again. As I walk through customs, Roylott not far behind, I lean towards one of the officers, discreetly pointing at Roylott´s large suitcase.

"I would take a closer look at this man´s luggage, if I were you," I prod. "He was boasting the whole flight about big game hunting and how proud he is of his prize." On my swift and discreet departure I spot the officials rounding on Roylott, still smiling when my mobile notifies me of a new message. Mycroft, telling me where to meet.

On my way to arrivals, entrance three, I step out of the building several entrances earlier to hastily smoke one of my well-hidden cigarettes. No use in aggravating my brother already.

Mycroft has come in his private limousine. "Welcome to London," he greets me, eyeing me with concern, before he steers the vehicle out on the street. We were never too enthusiastic on meeting in recent years, and I am weary of the secret plans he might have devised for me. Anyway, he has already seen what he needed to estimate my condition: my tanned face, my bandaged hand, my ever so slightly dilated pupils.

Since his remark has brought back a memory I would rather not be reminded of, of the first chase through London streets with John, I prefer to remain silent. In return, I observe his stiffer than usual posture, his adverted eyes and the force his knuckles lock with on the steering wheel.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

"What is it?" I ask.

Mycroft doesn´t answer while he avoids the shortcut to the motorway, taking us onto a route which brings us straight into the heart of the city. The main afternoon traffic has ceased, and we are passing familiar sights and places. I realize that he takes the scenic route to his house on purpose and I am grateful for this small act of brotherly kindness.

"Your place?" I finally ask, terribly tired and already freezing in face of the November night outside even though the heating is on full blast.

"Only for one night. There are several things you must know before we proceed," he replies.

"Moran was in Delhi," I report. "He sells opium."

Mycroft nods. "He is the main force behind the web´s drug business in south England and Scotland. What is your impression?"

"He´s as much a tiger as Moriarty was a spider. He´s a force to be reckoned with."

My brother sends me a glance. "I thought so. He is clever, too. Too clever to believe in our ruse, actually. Or at least very distrustful." A traffic light stops us and he faces me fully, his face clouded by a frown. "No use keeping it from you any longer. John has been attacked. He´s in hospital."

My heart clenches. "How?" I breathe hoarsely.

"Two men clubbed him unconscious with iron bars while he was visiting your grave. He suffered a major head injury."

"I need to see him," I croak, numb with shock.

Mycroft shakes his head. "You can´t. I suspect Moran wanted to trick us. He wants a reaction. If you go and see John now, the two of you are dead. Oh, and please refrain from assuring me again that you are dead," he proceeds, stopping me in my tracks. "It´s getting tedious, Sherlock."

Leaning back in my seat, I can´t stop my whirling thoughts. My brother has closed the subject and will not answer any additional questions at present, so I make an effort to stifle my impatience and want to hear more.

This doesn´t help to ban the feeling of guilt which is slowly building up. John has been gravely injured because a criminal maniac wanted information about Mycroft´s plans, about me. This was never supposed to be the result of my betrayal of John at St. Bart´s. It should never have happened, John should have stayed safe. Protected.


	21. Refusing Help

Mycroft´s house is not a very cosy place, since it is the home of a very busy man who does not spend much time in it. The only room I feel actually perfectly comfortable in is Mycroft´s office – the way the shelves are lined with all sorts of books from literature to non-fiction, and the way he surrounds his writing desk with piles of folders, some of them stored in boxes which brim over with paper, is very familiar and reminds me painfully of my rooms at Baker Street. He keeps his official office far tidier because he is always aware of his appearance, and will not allow the slightest slip in his impeccable demeanor.

At present, he is lighting the fire in the living room, leaving me to the file on the attack on John, which I have nearly memorized. The two men who have blocked the doctor on his way out of the cemetery had asked him for a cigarette, a witness reported. The first blow fell straight on his head before they made short work with John´s – leading – left arm and his ribs. His arm and three ribs are broken. The head wound is no longer life-threatening, Mycroft assured me, but John is still in an artificial coma to allow him more time to rest and heal.

He has received threats prior to the incident, SMS messages with questions about his involvement with my brother and the Morbier affair. He simply refused to answer, demanding that he did not share conversations with Mycroft anymore and referring the senders directly to my brother´s assistant. He has been talking to the police, though, but has not asked for protection since he had not taken the threats serious. Or, perhaps, in his grief for me he had simply stopped caring.

Mycroft returns with a steaming mug of tea, his fingers smudged with ash from the fireplace. I am still utterly tired but at the same time too wound up to even consider going to bed. I take the warm mug from him gratefully, as I am shivering in the just slightly heated room.

"The frost is early this year," Mycroft says, an unspoken question in his eyes.

"Delhi was certainly warmer," I reply distractedly, my eyes fixed on a photograph of John´s injured head.

Mycroft clears his throat. "The fire in the living room is up. And you`ll find everything you need in the spare bedroom."

Everything I need. Surely my brother is not as inattentive as to not have noticed that I am badly shaken by the news on John´s condition. While I have always been positive that he would sooner or later come to terms with my absence in his life, I have not considered the web to still be a threat to my doctor friend. Mycroft knows how I hate to be wrong, and he knows that I must inevitably blame myself for the outcome of my actions. Even if he doesn´t know how deeply, he can read the signs of fatigue and self-disgust on my features. He knows that the probability of me needing more than the comfort of his words and presence has risen considerably in the last few hours.

"About your medication…" he starts and takes a breath to continue. "You are surely not so much in pain as the packages I found in your backpack suggest."

"How clever a deduction that is, Mycroft. Now go and do your duty as the condescending big brother," I answer sharply, annoyed by him, annoyed at myself not being able to fight against my feeling of helplessness without returning to the help of chemical substances. With a flick of my wrist I send him away to the hall, where I abandoned my backpack half an hour ago. He leaves with a sigh and raised eyebrows, his expression mirroring my annoyance and showing his deep worry.

On returning, he finds me staring at the ceiling, the file on John dangling from my hand, legs stretched out under his writing desk.

"Sherlock?"

„Go away, Mycroft. I need to think."

He draws nearer. „There is nothing you can do at the moment. Staying awake and trying to figure out who John´s attackers were without any lead whatsoever won´t help Doctor Watson. "

"Go away." He knows how much I hate to repeat myself, but he doesn´t leave.

"There´s some food in the fridge, and you need sleep," he continues. "Tomorrow you´ll be transported to one of our organisation´s safe houses. You can support my people from there."

Jumping from my seat, I round on him. "Are you seriously suggesting that I hide while your men are tracking down Moran? While John is in danger? Or is this just your twisted idea of brotherly caring, locking me away to keep me out of trouble?"

His unwavering gaze meets mine, not giving away any sign of astonishment about my outburst. Instead, he just cocks an eyebrow, an expression I both love and hate, for it is so much like him to keep his composure even in the face of the most disturbing incidents.

"As long as you are in danger, be it from fellow humans or chemical compounds, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, yes. And, as you well know, even against your will. But surely you understand how crucial it is to remove you from Moran´s line of fire. He has seen you at Morbier´s house and in Delh. Even if he isn´t already suspicious of you, it is highly likely he tracked you down to get more information about your involvement in his affairs. And since he is very experienced in torture methods, I would not want you to be his victim."

"I told you already I can be as safe as I want to be in London," I answer with a growl. My brother just shakes his head slightly.

"Oh no. Not this time, Sherlock. I don´t care if you stayed up all night, focusing on John´s file or if you fall asleep at the fire. But I do care to see you whisked away to our safe house tomorrow morning and to know you will not lock heads with the leading drug baron in England."

Glaring at him, I step aside, grabbing the file from the desk where I left it. "Alright. If you insist. A very good night to you too, Mycroft." With this, I leave with as dramatic a stage exit I can muster, aware of his gaze trailing my movements.

Even though he must be wondering why I am suprisingly compliant, he doesn´t comment.

* * *

Several hours later, in the darkest hours of the night when the city´s inhabitants and even my wary brother are sound asleep I leave the premises through one of the kitchen windows after short-circuiting its alarm devices.

Outside, the air is freezing and I clasp the jacket I found in the wardrobe tightly around my chest, missing a scarf.

This time, there will be no getting back to my brother for help, for he will certainly not approve of my plan and most likely detain me the minute he finds me. This time, I will need to slip from his radar successfully and completely. To achieve this, I need to change into a person no one will bother to take notice of – into a homeless junkie.


	22. Junkie

When I told Mycroft that I could be as safe as I wanted to be, I meant exactly that.

Even my brother in all his alertness would not recognise me after one week on London´s streets. My clothes – jeans, baggy sweatshirt, a faded winter jacket and a beanie to cover my black hair – come from a clothing collection box, except for the boots I bought from Oxfam. The banknotes I took from my brother´s wallet are mainly spent on small batches of several substances and don´t stretch far enough to provide more than scarce food. I have lost weight rapidly, and doubt even John would recognize my haggard face, sunken, red-rimmed eyes and shaking form. Even under my still persisting tan I look sickly, partly due to the cold, partly due to lack of sleep.

Scuffling down the corridors of the trauma centre of St. Mary´s, I try to avert the eyes of the staff while trying to figure out which way the ICU is. It is early, not yet visiting hours, and time is of importance. Every minute I spend in a space as exposed as these hospital floors, I am at a risk to be detected by either staff, security or, even worse, Moran´s people who in all probability are watching John´s visitors closely.

A male nurse, blond, gay, married, Star Wars fan, starting his morning round, clipboard ready, startles me out of my thoughts.

"Are you lost?" he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Um, I was wondering where the ICU is."

Wary eyes are flicking over my hunched shoulders, my face, the death grip of my left hand on my right arm and the scar on my right. He is not sure whether to trust me and takes a step to the side to block my way.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Swaying, I shake my head. "No. Need to see a friend. He´s in the ICU, I guess. His name is John."

The man looks me up and down. "John Watson? He´s still not awake. You don´t look like you are family. You actually look as if you could need the ICU yourself," he replies. "Sure you are well?"

He is getting suspicious and could quite easily call the police. I manage my best fake-charming smile. "Look, I´m really worried about him. He´s had this accident, and now… If he dies… Can´t you please tell me where?" My voice is faltering with the last words and he watches the tears well up in the corners of my eyes. Still, he doesn´t waver.

"Well, as long as you are not family, I doubt that staff will allow you to see him," he says, raking his hand through his brown hair. "Unless you do have an appointment."

More tears are flowing, my voice has adopted a pleading tone. "See, I love him. He walked out on me because we had a row. About this." I stretch out my arm, nearly touching him and he backs away. "He wanted me to stop and I shouted at him. Then he was gone, and the next thing that happened was that his sister called me, telling me he had been mugged and injured. – God, I´m so sorry. All I want is to apologize – to tell him I love him," I sob, advancing two steps towards the man.

He looks the corridor up and down, then turns to me again, a small, sympathetic smile on his face. "Right. Know how you feel. Bad thing to hurt someone you love. Take this way, to the right, two doors down the corridor. The nurses up there know his room, just ask. And good luck," he says, pointing into the right direction.

Wiping my eyes, I nod in gratitude, already walking.

"Hey, lad," he calls out and I stop, looking back. "Well, if you´ve changed your mind about taking appointments, there´s a drugs advice center on the ground floor."

"Thank you," I say, proceeding towards the doors at the end of the corridor, already preoccupied how to approach John´s room safely. It is annoying, though, that my fake tears are still stinging my eyes and I can´t seem to stop sniffling.

Two doors further down I am fortunately faced by an empty nurse´s office. Several of the patient´s files are piled on the desk. It takes only a second to retrieve John´s. The information on it matches that of the police file. So far, there has been no important development, either good or bad, on John´s condition. He´s just two rooms away, and I feel my pulse quicken at the thought that he is so close. Carefully, I approach his door. There are only soft voices audible from a distance and no one in sight. Nobody stops me from opening the door, and I finally enter, my breath hitching in my throat at the sight of my best friend, pale, drawn and connected to several drip stands and machines, his head bandaged, his arm in a cast.

Softly, I draw nearer and suddenly find myself completely lost in the sight of my injured friend, momentarily forgetting how dangerous it is to have come here. A stray tear spills down my cheek, but I refuse to acknowledge that it is not a fake one, that I am shaken by yearning for my home, for his friendship and by my guilt.

Gingerly I trace my fingers over the back of his left hand, feeling the urge to tell him everything, to simply stay until he wakes and whisk him away to Baker Street or any other place we can stay together, safe, and have a good laugh about the whole Moriarty business. My throat is dry, though, and I don´t dare even to whisper a word for fear of alerting him of my presence. This is not the right place nor the right time to reunite, reason tells me. My heart speaks a very different language and flatly refuses to be ignored.

The distinctive sound of soft footsteps wakes me from my reverie. Quick as lightning I hide behind the door. It opens a second later, and a tiny woman in a lab coat enters. She hurries to John´s side and retrieves a syringe from her lab coat. There is something in her demeanor which alarms me, and two steps take me to her side, one hand clasping her mouth, the other her wrist, wringing the needle from her hand. She struggles violently but is careful enough not to cry out which only cements my conviction that she doesn´t belong to the staff.

Twisting her wrist even further, I breathe my question into her ear: "Who sent you?" She doesn't answer, but another twist, harder this time, makes her whimper. "You wrist is very slim. It´ll break easily. If I were you I would answer – quickly," I hiss, venom in my voice, wrath clouding my vision. "Was it Moran?" She finally nods and I release her hand, only to catch her arm again as she lungs out toward my throat. My free hand delivers a hard blow to her temple and she sags in my arms.

One minute later she is bound with strips from a spare sheet I have found in one of the lockers. Not too early, for the door opens again with a bang, and a very bossy nurse walks in.

"Well, Dr. Watson, high time you come out of this coma, don´t you think. You should be fine in a few days. Allright, let´s check your drips first…" she starts before her eyes meet the confined human on the floor. When she turns, I have already taken advantage of having waited behind the door, and all she sees of me is my jacket flying as I escape down the corridor, colliding with a laundry car.

* * *

Five floors down and out in the street I am grateful for a cigarette. Typing in the last message my mobile will send to Mycroft is a tedious task, as my vision is still blurred and my hands are shaking.

"John needs police protection."

It takes him only a second to answer.

"You went to see him."

"Not your concern. Protect him. Don´t try to reach me."

Breathing in heavily, I retrieve the SIM card and smash the mobile on the ground, finishing it by stepping on it heavily and dumping it in a nearby wastebasket.

It is high time I find a dealer.


	23. Dealer´s Honour

Immersing in the life of a city the size of London means to hide in a mass of lives and destinies, of incidents and businesses intricately interwoven and connected. It means, also, to spill and spray like a drop into the vast sea of souls, into the "great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained," as a great English author has described my home town one hundred years ago.

The moves I am reduced to take in my pursuit of Moran, though, are far less dynamic then spilling or spraying. Two weeks ago I have taken up the company of a small group of junkies who run the odd errand for one of the more important dealers of East London. They regard me as a nutter, for I have made good use of my sharp tongue and given them the odd rant on insignificant incidents, telling them off sharply whenever they demaned money, food or attempted to coax me into a collective session of taking whatever substance they favour. They are not picky, but have accepted that I will only touch cocaine and cigarettes, nothing else. And I made clear to them that I have no interest to shoot up in company, so they are used of my leaving frequently. Every now and again, they request my advice on where to roam the city for food or goods, and safe places to stay.

While with them, I try to avoid sleep, nodding off only for an hour or two for fear of giving my identity away by talking in my dreams. The winter cold and lack of rest do take slowly and continually their toll on my abilities of observation. The days seem to blur and I sometimes fail to remember what my intentions have been in the first place other than finding food or conversing with my new companions. Frequently, I wonder how long I will be able to keep up my appearance, how long I will be capable to focus on the task at hand – finding Moran.

I loathe to admit that my brother could have been right in suggesting that tracking down the furious tiger Moran in his private jungle of illegal activities could have been completed far more successfully by Mycroft´s men. But since John got involved, I could never refrain from taking matters in my own hand. This is personal, as it was with Moriarty, and I will definitely not go back to my brother for help.

Mycroft has not suceeded in tracing me. Although I passed Baker Street twice to be sure that John has returned safe and well from hospital, his men have not noticed my presence, as the two police officers who are constantly watching our doorstep haven´t. The first time I watched 221B, John was leaning in the doorway, talking to Mike Stamford, who was leaving him after a prolonged visit. John was still pale, gripping the handle of his cane tightly, looking sad and tired. At my second visit, one recent December evening, I spotted him alighting from a cab, shopping bags dangling from his hand, obviously containing Christmas gifts. He didn´t use the cane then, and balanced a larger package with his left arm, still in a light cast.

I was again more than tempted to call him then, to follow him inside and explain why I had to leave, why I needed to become a shadow of my old self. Instead, I retreated into the shadows of the entrance I was hiding at, and left when the lights in our windows came on.

* * *

It is already two days before Christmas and freezing. The sleeping bag I acquired several weeks ago does no longer keep away the cold. Cigarettes provide an illusion of warmth, but most of the time I shiver in the foggy winter air, my fingers numb, a persistent cough on my lips. I am ready for my next move, and nervous. In the twilight zone I have entered, the life of the individual is only worth the amount of money said individual owes the web. And I am in debt to Brian, a hot-tempered, vicious member of one of the closer circles of Moran´s dealers. Although in a minor position, he is usually well informed about the latest developments and deliveries. He is constantly boasting of his close acquaintance to Moran, which makes him a suitable target for my purpose.

The sky is clouded and already darkening when I approach him.

"Hi Freak," he greets me, oblivious of the fact that he actually found the same name for me as a certain female police officer years ago. "Challenger. Want to try something new today?"

"The usual," I growl.

"Oh, so sorry, but you are in my debt already, Freak. A shame, really. I would have offerd you a good price for the new stuff. As you certainly want high quality, I can´t offer you a discount, I´m afraid."

"I´ll pay you later."

"Like last time?" He draws nearer, eyeing me, nodding, convinced that my shaking hands and famished limbs are no threat to him. "Sorry not to be able to help you, but if you can´t pay…"

"Next time," I breathe, my voice shaky, my arms crossed on my chest to keep the shivering at bay. "Or probably you need someone to help?"

"Help? With what?"

"At the harbor tomorrow. With the new delivery."

His eyes narrow dangerously and he steps closer. "How do you know about the delivery?"

Coughing, I stare back. "Because you were boasting how important it is. And you mentioned you´ll need reliable hands to bring it on its way to Scotland."

He laughs. "Oh, I see. Freak has been listening, not sleeping his high off. Probably has been spying all the time." His eyes narrow and he draws nearer, pushing me into the wall. "Tell you what. That was secret."

"Then I wonder why you blurt it out in public…" I can´t help to remark, arrogance tingeing my voice.

His eyes are darkening and he grabs my right arm, drawing the silver bracelet, Chandra´s present, into the light of the street lamp.

"Oh, see, you are a rich man. Why don´t you pay me with this and leave with the stuff?" he asks with a wicked smile.

"Can´t," I gasp between two coughs, trying to wring my hand free. "Family heritage."

He smiles dangerously. "I knew you are a traditional guy." He yanks my arm down, hard, nearly throwing me off balance. "Hey, take it easy," he mocks me "you could easily break some bones, skinny thing that you are."

I don´t relent. "You´ll get the money or my manpower. I´m stronger than I do appear, you know."

"I bet,"he laughs, yanking my arm down again, but I have already taken a step back, steadying myself, and I clasp his wrist in a fixed grip, hurling him towards me. "See?" I hiss, my eyes narrowing.

"Oh yes, I do," he hisses back. "There´s certainly more to you than meets the eye." I realise that I have miscalculated badly. Brian thrives on power, he bathes in his superiority on supposedly weaker characters. By demonstrating my strength, I have undermined his authority. He will teach me a lesson. And he does. Faster than I can react, he draws a small knife and digs it into my left side, just beneath the ribcage. Gasping, I let go of his arm.

"No need for surplus hands, Challenger. Especially nosy ones. They are more than… useless for the organization," he spits into my ear and twists the blade slightly, nearly wringing a cry of agony from my lips.

"Next time you do overhear talk of official business you keep your mouth shut," he warns me before he retrieves the knife and leaves, not looking back.

My bad state has been the cause for my lack of good judgment, I think while I sag onto the concrete and try to quell the blood with my woolen jumper. The pain is unbearable. It appears, though, that Brian has not hit any vital regions. His attack was merely meant as a warning. I am his customer, after all, he still hopes to gather money from me. I can´t tell whether I will be able to get any more information on the web´s business, though.

The wound needs immediate medical treatment. There is only one doctor in London who can help me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote above is from Arthur Conan Doyle, "A Study in Scarlet", 1st chapter, Dr. Watson speaking: "I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air (...) Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained."


	24. Tear Gas

After a long ride on the underground which thankfully is deserted this time of night, I arrive at my doctor´s apartment. Hiding in the shadows, I wait for help.

It shouldn´t take Dr. Molly Hooper long to arrive home from Bart´s. She usually takes the next available tube after her shift, and it is only a half-hour drive and a ten minute´s walk to the small house she lives in.

She arrives later than I calculated, and I start to shiver in the cold December night. My jacket barly protects me from the cold, and the wound in my side burns like hell.

She must have noticed my breathing, for when I approach her to speak to her, she turns, quickly. A hiss sounds, and my eyes sting and water. She tugs at my beanie, and delivers a hard blow to my abdomen. I slump to my knees with a sharp cry. The beanie slips from my head and reveals my cheekbones, which are more prominent than ever for I have lost several stones in the recent weeks.

"Oh my god, it´s you!" Molly exclaims, her hand flying to her mouth. "I´m so sorry, really, I am." She bends over me and tries to pry my hands from my stomach. "What are you doing here? I thought I was getting mugged!"

"Please, Molly, can we talk inside?" I ask huskily. "It is cold and I shouldn´t be seen on the street."

She takes one of my arms and helps me up, with a nod. "Of course you shouldn´t. Sorry, I thought…" She falters and regards me. In the light of the streetlamp I must look like a ghost, pale, shaking, bloodied. Her horrified expression tells me she noticed my soiled jumper. "What happened?" she asks.

"Later. Let´s get in, please."

Molly nods and fumbles with the key, sending me an odd, questioning look, as if to ask whether I am able to walk at all of if she needs to carry me over her doorstep. At least, the tear gas has not hit my eyes with full force, so I can follow her easily.

Once inside, she helps me reach her sofa, and instantly pries my clothes from the gash in my side. She inahles sharply when she spots the wound, and looks me in the face, flinching only a little.

"This is… this is nasty. You´ll need stitches and… medication. I need to go back to Bart´s. Sorry."

Interesting, Dr. Molly Hooper doesn´t seem to keep medical stuff in her house. Interesting again that John did. Probably he only took up provisions when we met. He must have realised that I was prone to get into trouble, at a very early step of our acquaintance, I muse, dizzy with pain.

Molly takes my silence as fatigue, which it partly is, and retrieves a towel to still the blood. "Press this down," she orders me. "I´ll take the car and be back in twenty minutes."

She needs only fifteen, the big flowery clock on the wall of her living room announces. As I am too tired and weak to move, she finds me slumped in exactly the same position she left me. Gently, she helps me to retrieve my T-Shirt, and starts to clean the blood away.

"What happened, Sherlock?" she asks, biting her lip. "No, don´t speak, I can see it. Someone lunged at you with a knife and managed to stab you. One of your enemies? I shouldn´t ask, shouldn´t I? You weren´t going to tell me anyway, right?"

Her familiar voice is nearly lulling me into sleep, but I make an effort to respond."Correct deduction, Dr. Hooper. I was attacked. That´s all there is to know."

Molly retrieves a syringe from one of the packages she brought and fills it. "All right… Don´t tell me. Not now, anyway. This might sting a bit, but I don´t want to stitch you up without using anaesthetics."

As we are both waiting for the medicine to work, Molly looks me over with a professional glance. "You were hurt before," she observes. "A cut on the left forearm, a bullet graze on your shoulder, a stab wound on your chest and news bruises on your left side. And…" she falters "track marks on your arms…"

"It´s a good thing you read corpses, Molly," I answer lightly. She doesn´t detect any malice or impatience in my statement and frowns at me.

"You are… you have… changed. You´ve been away for so long, John will surely…."

"John will not be seeing me. This is why I have come to you," I state firmly, a trace of desperation in my voice.

Comprehension dawns in her eyes. "It is not over, then," she questions.

"No, it´s not. I just need your help and will be away again soon, chasing Moriarty´s heir."

She gets up, grabs her equipment, comes back and tries to concentrate on the first stitch. "You can´t go out into a winter night like this. I´ll fix this and then you stay."

"I´m awfully sorry to not be able to comply to your dearest wish, Molly Hooper," I manage to joke through clenched teeth. She doesn´t stop, but chuckles ever so lightly. "Seriously, Sherlock. You need rest, and your wound needs to be treated properly." The last stitches finished, she bandages my chest, and offers me a blanket.

I allow myself to indulge in the feeling of warmth and friendliness for several minutes, before I rise and grab my jumper and jacket.

Molly, who has left for the kitchen, comes back just in time to catch me fingering the knob to the front door.

"Don´t," she says, fidgeting, fixing me with her brown eyes. "You really need to stay."

I don´t look her in the face. "I can´t, Molly. It would be too dangerous for you."

"Not if only for one night. Sherlock, you´re hurt. If you go out there you will be in no shape to defend yourself."

She has a point. It seems I have not only lost my good judgment but my strength as well, and the warmth of her flat is pulling at me with a promise of peace and quiet I am suddenly only too eager to take advantage of.

Molly notices my reluctance and touches my elbow. "Sherlock. Whatever you´re up to, you will not achieve it tonight. Please stay."

Looking down on her I realise that this is the real Molly Hooper, a very practical, bright individual who dared to offer me her unconditional help once and does offer it again, now. Three times in a row, to be precise. As if to conjure my spirit. In spite of my feeling of urgency, my lips curl into a wary, tired smile and I nod.

"Since the last time you helped me I survived, I guess it would not be wise to decline your offer," I acknowledge and follow her back into the living room.


	25. Bit Not Good

Molly has been infinitely more patient with me than I have ever been with her.

She has not only treated my wound with care and medical precision, she has also almost cured me of a looming bronchitis and left me enough food for two days when she went away for her yearly Christmas visit to her parents. She has even bought me a new jumper and several T-Shirts for as a gift, and presented me with a scarf, which John had bought months ago for me and offered to her after my suicide.

In return, I have not been thoroughly honest, never acknowledging her concern of my apparent serious drug habit and sneaking out of her flat on two or three occasions against doctor´s orders to rest.

Even though I am itching to continue my mission, the cold and bleary weather does not invite on leaving her house for good. Consequenty, I have already stayed far longer than I intended. Every passing day cost me precious contacts and information, not to mention the difficulties Brian could cause if he told anyone of the web his version of our encounter. But I feel I have run out of steam, not only due of physical, but also on grounds of mental exhaustion. What use is it to attempt to track down Moran in secret when the web threatens John in the hope that I will reveal myself? Does it really make a significant difference that I keep myself hidden?

Pondering questions and revising my plans, I spend most of the short winter days in Molly´s spare room which thankfully is bare of any dinky adornments, It is probably the smallest room I´ve ever lived in. With the bedside lamp dimmed and the window tilted to allow the sounds of the city in, I can finally think properly. The room is only slightly heated, too, as I am used to sleeping rough by now. Molly doesn´t approve for fear I might catch pneumonia on top of my bronchitis, but she refrains from repeating her concern, instead biting her lip in annoyance every time she looks after me.

* * *

On New Year´s eve, Molly opens the door and finds me stretched out on the bed, arms crossed under my head, staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock? Would you like dinner? It´s in the fridge," she offers, fidgeting. "I will be away to a party, so if you like to help yourself…"

A grunt is her answer. She shifts uneasily, not yet ready to leave. "You know, I ´m not sure…" she stutters. "Whether you need any… I mean, if you are ok," she corrects herself. "You´re healing well enough, and the cough is nearly gone, but I was wondering…" She backs off, startled and nervous, and I push myself upright.

"Wondering what exactly, Molly Hooper? Whether I am shooting up in your house? Where I do get my stuff?"

She takes a step back, but raises her head and looks me firmly in the eye. "You´ve been back nearly a fortnight, Sherlock. But you hardly ever talk to me." Drawing nearer, she lets go of the doorknob she has been holding in a dead grip and smiles reassuringly. "I´m concerned about you. You´ve never been so wired."

I get up and face the window. "So what do you want from me?" I turn and face her, snarling. "Do you want to pacify me so that I will sit in your lap and purr? Or do you want me to break down crying, confessing how sorry I am to have caused you concern? That I wish things were different?"

"No, that´s not it," she states, firmly. "I just want to know why you´ve changed so much. Do you really want to take all the blame for what Moriarty did, what his people are still doing?"

My answer is silence. But Molly doesn´t back off. "So why... why are you back on drugs?" she asks after a minute of quiet, softly.

My glare and my balled fists should be threatening enough to chase her away from my room, but she doesn´t waver. Harsh words are needed, not the truth. To protect her, I need to apply the same method I applied on John.

"Why would you even want to know?" I snarl. "You, a doctor — you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum! Is cutting up corpses not exciting enough, are you dying to dissect the living, too?"

Molly´s lips start trembling, more from rage than from hurt. "I simply care, Sherlock. I can´t understand what happened to you, please explain!"

I snort. "Ah, your tiny brain can´t comprehend my line of action. Have you even considered anything more than the obvious?"

"What?"

I spread my arms in a gesture of impatience. "Oh, come on! It´s quite easy to grasp. Don´t you know that there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact?" Falling back onto the bed, covering my face with my hands, I groan. "Are you really that thick, Molly Hooper?"

She steps nearer, furious about my rant. "Oh, thanks for your gratitude," she spits. "Being friends with a doctor who would stitch you up comes in handy, I suppose. But when I show the slightest concern for you, all you can think of is to blurt out insults. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes! Probably you´d better be off to your delirious friends again and on to your absurd chase, since this seems to be the only thing you are truly capable of: cornering your prey and scorning it."

A sarcastic smile tugs at my lips. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper, for enlightening me. Please don´t expect to meet me when you are back – I think I´ll do as you ask and explore an area where I can make better use of my genuine talents."

Nodding, her eyes narrowed to slits – a rare sight with Molly, I register - she uncrosses her arms. "Do as you please. But don´t expect me to pick you up again should you ever crawl back begging for help."

That´s settled, then. Not the most elegant way to avoid answering her questions, a bit not good, as John would say. She must not know anything of my plans lest she would be an easy target for the web´s members. And I need to move on. Letting Molly know the truth would complicate matters far more than lying to her does. I can only hope that she might grasp the meaning behind my words. If not, I hope there will be a time, later, when I can explain.

Listening to her getting dressed for the evening and finally leaving the house, I find myself regretting my insults. I wish she would grasp what I was trying to transport to her. More likely, though, Molly will be just another casualty, another victim of betrayed trust, like John.


	26. Fraud´s Qualms

January has been rather tepid for a winter month, and wet. Since I left Molly´s house, I have avoided taking up with a group again, only frequently met singular individuals I know who couldn´t provide me with useful information. The way my investigation proceeds, it could take years to get to Moran.

The result of three months in London is drab. What started out as an intellectual challenge has become tedious and frustrating. Where I formerly thrived on connecting clues, chasing offenders, I am now presented with only threadbare evidence of Moran´s presence. He is out there, but in the last six weeks I have, for all my efforts, come nowhere near the man. Instead, I am getting more itchy, aggravated and depressed daily, which doesn´t help me at all to focus.

My mind whirls with questions. Does alone really protect me? Doesn´t it just slow me down? Are my friends and family really protected by my absence from their life? On whose authority did I rob them of their decision to care for me? Am I really arrogant enough to assume that I am the only individual who is capable of ultimately and successfully destroying the web? I, Sherlock Holmes, "who always works alone, because no one else can compete with my massive intellect," as John termed it?

I must be just as deranged as Moriarty was, or, if not, ultimately desperate. Desperate to convince myself that I am no fraud.

I´ve lost all resources. John mourns me. Mycroft worries about me. And Molly, in all probability, curses herself for being considerate. As if to mock me, I find myself surrounded by sprayings and posters blurting out"I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Evidently people who have never met me do care, in spite of my downfall. They want a hero. I am far from being a hero. I don´t want them to care. I don´t need their support. What I need is to believe in myself. But I seem to lose that.

Mycroft would gleefully take me into his brotherly care, would I call for his help. He would triumph in the knowledge that he was right in his assumption that I can´t do this on my own. And I would never be able to forgive him. Thus, I am trapped. It´s like walking on a mountain ridge in the fog. I can´t turn back and I can´t divert.

My beacon, my compass, still anchors in Baker Street, and I have made it a – very risky – habit to pass it regularly, never at the same time, preferably in the night. My visits are intended to remind me of what is at stake, but I always leave with the same longing for an end, for my home.

I´m tired, and this is what propels me toward Moran much more rapidly than I would have thought probable.

* * *

It´s nearly February when I meet Brian at one of the disused underground depots I prefer to camp at. He approaches me with a malign grin, his eyes scanning my tired expression and skinny limbs.

"Hi there, Freak. Long time no see."

"My pleasure," I answer, cold resentment in my voice. "As you probably already assumed, I desperately needed some time off."

He draws his knife, patting his hand with the blade, regarding the steel. "Oh yes. I remember. Did it hurt?"

"Not too much. In fact, it was a pleasure I would honestly be only too happy to return to you."

"Never lost for the right words, ha?" he asks, eyeing me, his eyes narrowing. "You can´t pay me with words, you know. You´ll need money. Just think of the interest."

"Is this interest enough?" I retort and remove the silver bracelet from my arm to offer it to him.

"I thought that was part of your heritage," he mocks me.

"Well, yes, it is," I answer, weighing the solid material in my hand.

He reaches out to grab it, but I pull back. His gaze lingers on the scar on my arm and a spark of curiosity flickers in his eyes, but he says nothing.

"Only if you take me with you when the next delivery arrives," I demand.

He chuckles, the glint of interest in his eyes changing into amusement. "Anything you want, Challenger. Well, in fact if you are not occupied, you can come along... let´s see... oh yes, tomorrow. Meet me in Regent´s Park at the Long Bridge at eight." He pauses and chuckles. "Might even give you a chance to gather a little credit." With this, he leaves fast and swift, his features blurring with the dark.

Relief washes over me. Finally I might be able to get a closer look at Moran´s business.

If I hadn´t closed my eyes for tiredness, I might have spotted him retrieving his mobile.

* * *

The next day I can´t resist passing 221B on my way to Regent´s Park. I have just walked up towards Speedy´s, when a black limousine is slowing down beside me.

The sound of a violin, a busker eliciting the instrument a haunting tune of dissonant sounds, distracts me from noticing that the car is following me up to the next crossroad. Its doors open and two men in black suits approach me. Although they don´t seem familiar, I don´t sense danger. I think of my annoying brother instead, truly relieved that he has finally found me.

"Took your time, brother dear," is my last conscious thought before I feel the prick of a needle in my neck and strong arms around my waist, pulling my swaying body swiftly and roughly into the car.


	27. Seven Percent Solution

Awakening is not pleasant. I open my eyes, but my vision swims and I feel dizzy and nauseous. It is cold and I shiver. Only a T-shirt and my tatty jeans are protecting me from the chilly air. My mouth is dry and I long for water, but I can´t move.

Oh, how dull. Would Mycroft´s men tie me to a chair? Definitely not.

Time passes infuriatingly slow, and I am left to my deductions and assumptions, my mind racing with escape scenarios, not being able to come to a conclusion without any data.

My speculations on who has abducted me are confirmed when the door to my prison opens and a man steps in. He is in his fourties and bears the air of a person with a military background. His composed attitude reminds me of John, while his observant blue eyes bore into mine like those of a tiger contemplating his prey. He is muscular, his hair is cropped short and he bears a revolver. His steps are light and springy. His triumphant smile tells me that he knows everything.

"It´s good to know that you are actually not rotting away in your grave," he mocks. "It´s much more pleasurable to talk to the living than to ghosts. We´ve already had the pleasure, but not yet the opportunity to talk."

"Oh, I remember," I answer. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, released from action in Afghanistan by charge of dishonor, sidekick of the only consulting criminal the world has known so far. Even if we hadn´t met, your right forefinger would have done the introduction, as it is callused by the frequent shooting practice you are keen not to miss and which twitches in anticipation of shooting me."

He frowns at me. "Jim told me once you know everything because you are so observant. I see he was right." He waves at the room, a wolfish grin on his face. "Please tell me what you deduce from this. And please give me all the details, Holmes."

Breathing in, I take in my surroundings closer. It is abundantly clear that he wants me to estimate the amount of trouble I am in. His cruel, expectant smile is giving him away.

"This room is not very high and it is wet and cold. The air is stale, so there is either not much circulation in here or we are far from an entrance which would provide a draft. The walls are stone, showing traces of a black substance which resets there quite permanently, as it has nearly merged into the wall. The disused tools in the corner are quite clearly miner´s tools." I pause and frown, suddenly remembering coming round briefly during yesterday´s journey and regarding the evening sun falling onto the rear bench of the car before Moran´s men drugged me again.

"We are in a disused quarry. As our drive took us south-east and as I have passed out for about six hours, I am quite certain that we are not too far from London, possibly in Kent. You haven´t killed me yet but tied me to a chair, which is pretty much the common scenario for applying torture on a hostage," I elaborate, my voice cold and detached.

Surprisingly, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. The he looks me straight in the eye. "You are never wrong, do you? Tell you what – you are not. Tell you what: I do have a peculiar feeling that I will still be able to surprise you."

I can´t help myself. "What do you think would surprise me? Punching? Flogging? Water-boarding? By all I know your people and especially you, as I have been reliably informed, are more than apt on all methods known."

He advances on me, snarling, the knuckles of his right hand slamming my face, hard. "Discrediting your host is not very good manners, Sherlock. Show more respect."

I taste blood on my lip and swallow. "You are not my host, you abducted me."

"For your own good," he says and draws level with my face. He grabs my chin, prodding it upwards until my eyes meet his. "You were really not doing well in your hunt for me. Now that I have found you, I would like you to have a little fun for a change."

He steps away, grabs an object from a nearby table and toys with it. "You just returned from Hades, Holmes. A very tedious expedition, as is reported. Those who are allowed to go back to the living are not allowed to turn their heads. But not only didn't you look back, you forgot to look to the left and right." He draws nearer. "You were far too occupied with playing the addict. It must have been taxing. Surely you are dying to recover, to relax?" He waves the object towards me. Dread floods me. It is a hypodermic needle.

He studies my expression and nods. "I guess it has been awfully frustrating for you to withstand the pull of the drug. To buy cocaine and dump it. To feel the slim steel of a needle enter your vein, only to pull out blood without shooting a substance in. To draw the needle in deep enough to create a convincing bruise. All for the single purpose of hunting me down. I am flattered by the amount of your efforts, Holmes."

He steps back one pace, regarding the tip of the needle as he removes the air. "You know, Jim told me a few things about you… I´m intrigued by the striking similarity between us. I prefer to go out and make good use of my masterly shooting skills when I´m under pressure. You, on the other hand, prefer to stay inside and shoot up."

I silently curse myself, for while I considered it a possibility that Moran would order his men to torture me, I haven´t taken into account that he might drug me. In fact, my inattentiveness has partly been due to the scrutiny with which I disguised as a junkie. All my willpower was needed to handle batches of cocaine three times a day without ever using them and to convince my companions of my habit with the help of needles and eye drops containing belladonna.

A spark of glee appears in his eyes. He is a keen observer and has noted the slight traces of fear in my otherwise unmoving features. He tuts. "I don´t intend to harm you. Not much, anyway. You are my guest, remember? Please allow me the pleasure of offering you a house-warming present. You just need to accept it gratefully and put it to good use. Surely you are not so impolite as to refuse?"

I stare at him, growing fear dimming my ability to be careful. "I don´t think your hospitality is of the kind which requires one to be grateful," I bite back.

He snarls and hits me again, slamming my cheek. "Manners, Sherlock," he growls and crouches down at my side. "Let´s get this clear. I want you to shoot this batch of cocaine into your posh veins immediately. And I want you to do this yourself. I am far too afraid to maim your marble skin, as I am only dexterous in my trigger finger. You, being a violinist and due to personal experience, are the expert here."

I shake my head, blood running from a split on my cheekbone. "I will not inject any drug," I reply firmly. "I am clean."

"Oh, modesty itself, all of a sudden?" Moran snorts. He retrieves his gun. "Just imagine the headlines after you´ve been found dead due to an overdose. The press will ring with theories on how the fraud detective faked his own death and, while trying to make his way back into the headlights, couldn´t cope with the fact that he´s a junkie."

"If you want to kill me, why not do it fast and swift?" I offer.

He laughs. "Let´s see how much you still cherish your life," he says, pointing the gun at my temple. "I´m sure I can convince you to live just that little bit longer."

He releases my right arm from its bonds and pushes the hypo into my hand, which starts to twitch as soon as it touches the object. I am shaking, all my limbs are tensing in a futile attempt to flee. Moran has found the surest way to fill my heart with sheer horror, for as much as I don´t want to poison my blood with any drug anymore, I remember the high far too well. A voice which has whispered to me annoyingly often in the past weeks beckons me to relent, assuring me that getting high will be far more agreeable than getting shot or being beaten up by Moran´s thugs.

I can´t command my hand to move, thus Moran steers it forcefully towards my left arm, where the vein stands out clearly. I register that the men who bound me have applied a tourniquet, which Moran has already yanked tight. I try to fight his hand, but to no avail.

When the tip of the needle rests in the crook of my elbow, piercing my skin ever so lightly, he cocks the gun and releases me. "Just. Do. It," he hisses into my ear. I hold my breath and close my eyes briefly as I press the needle into my skin.

"Now," he prods and grates the gun into my temple, for I am hesitating. Reason tells me there is no point in prolonging what is inevitably to come – my apparent suicide. Again. But my instinct tells me to grasp the tiny chance to prolong our game, to beat him as I beat Moriarty.

My breath comes in short gasps, as I finally, painfully slowly, obey his order. Feeling sick, I watch the blood streaming in, transporting the drug back down into the vein.

With a satisfied grin, Moran puts down his gun and strokes my hair lightly. "Good boy," he compliments me. "Don´t worry. I´ve chosen quality stuff – I do want you to enjoy, not suffer." With that, he leaves.

Alone is all I have now. Alone doesn´t protect me from the rush of the cocaine, my despair and self-hate. For the second time in nineteen months I feel tears of regret wetting my face.


	28. Leaving a Note

John. Is that you?

Did I hear you talking to me, urging me to wake up? I don´t think it was you. You are certain that I am dead. Or probably you aren´t. Didn´t I tell you that it was all a trick, a magic trick? Did you listen? You are a far more competent listener than observer.

Do you listen now?

I failed, John, due to a recognizable scar on my arm and my own stupidity. One second of negligence was all it took, caused by the strain of pursuing the web for all these months, of not being allowed being me. In the end, I failed, John. All I accomplished was to find the head of the web, Moran, only to allow him to find me.

I´m back on drugs, John, with a vengeance. Moran is thorough. He studies me, delighting in the fact that he no longer needs to force me to inject. He started with cocaine but has proceeded to hand me something stronger. I don´t care what.

The time without the drugs is the real torture, not the short minutes of the high. They are my only freedom. Whatever Moran´s people are doing to me in this timespan, it doesn´t affect me. I feel so much more alive in these moments than in the desolate hours of crashing and I welcome the high.

Recently, I dreamed of a cottage, near the sea. It was summer and a swarm of bees had settled in a nearby tree. We were sitting on the lawn, talking. In fact, I was talking. You were listening. The sun was setting and I knew it would stay like this forever, the peacefulness of the place and our friendship being the constant in a cruel and dangerous universe.

In another dream we were flying over London, hand in hand. We were hovering high above the city, gently removing roofs, peeping in at the life beneath. What we saw was indefinitely stranger than fiction and much more poetic.

What troubles me is that Moran knows. His smug smile tells me he is aware that I´ve surrendered. He attempts to prolong my torture and has taken a preference to advancing me without a hypodermic or in withholding my dose for just some minutes more, ordering me to beg, gloating in the agony he causes.

Even when he finally complies to my hoarse pleading – and I have learned to plead, John, for the pain of having failed so badly and of my injuries will only be dimmed by the drug – I don´t fool myself into hoping he will grant me mercy. Moran wants me dead. I will not escape his grasp.

John, I deeply regret that I will never be able to tell you in person what happened and why I did what I did.

I regret my lies. I regret my absence from your live. I regret never to be able to see you smile again.

I failed you.

Please forgive me.

Goodbye, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote here is from Arthur Conan Doyle´s 'A Case of Identity', and reads:
> 
> "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable." (Sherlock Holmes talking)
> 
> I´ve always considered it astonishingly poetic for our favourite detective to say :)


End file.
